As Insipid As Love
by Akenaten
Summary: CHAPTER 32-The last chapter of my story. Nope, no spoilers or summaries. Just read it and tell me what you think!
1. Default Chapter

As Insipid As Love  
  
Author's Note: While watching "Revolutions", I was very curious as to what made Smith say "although, only a human mind could invent something as insipid as love." I could only come to the conclusion that in the interim between "Reloaded" and "Revolutions", he might have actually experienced if not love itself, then something like it.  
  
Now to my story. I decided to write a story that would explore the darker side of Smith's nature that haven't been written about too much up until now, for example: cruelty, tendency of violence (against women), and sexual sadism. I personally think he is capable of these things, when he is frustrated enough or pushed to the limits of his self-control (physical, emotional, tempermental) he is perfectly willing and capable of reacting very violently.  
  
This story is rated R for physical violence (against a woman), some language, adult situations and it has graphic descriptions of rape. If scenes like this bother you, DO NOT read this story. I'm giving this warning out now, so I don't get tons of flames as a result.  
  
Rating: R. M/F, OFC, N/C sex, N/C preg.  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own anyone or anything connected with the Matrix.  
  
Summary: Smith becomes emotionally and physically obsessed with a woman and the result of his actions could destroy the Matrix.  
  
Chapter One—Why?  
  
Bronwyn scrubbed herself over and over again with the hottest water she could tolerate in a futile attempt to remove all evidence of Smith's touch, his brutal and lengthy violation of her body.  
  
Too bad scrubbing my skin red and raw can't erase my memories as well, she thought to herself.  
  
She leaned back in her nearly full tub of water and looked at her body through the pink tinged water, satisfied that the bleeding from her torn and bruised vagina had finally stopped. She got out of the tub when the water had cooled and gently dabbed her skin dry with a towel before putting on the long tee- shirt that she usually wore to bed.  
  
Once in her bedroom, she lay on top of the covers, curled up in a fetal position with her knees against her chest and remembered what had happened to her in the last two hours. They were the longest 2 hours of my life, she thought, and they couldn't have been any worse, either.  
  
During her previous occupation as a prostitute not that long ago, she had been raped and beaten by men many times. She knew what had happened tonight was no different from any of the other times, so why is this bothering me so much, she wondered, waiting for the painkillers and sleeping pills she had taken to take effect and the forgetfulness they offered, to begin.  
  
If only I had taken a different way home two days ago, I wouldn't have met Smith and none of this would have happened. Why did he have to do this to me, was Bronwyn's last thought before sleep reached for her at last. 


	2. Meeting Agent Smith

Meeting Agent Smith  
  
Two nights ago........  
  
It had been an especially bad day at work, and at long last her shift was over. After clocking out, she was anxious to get home, put her aching feet up and maybe watch some TV before she fell asleep.  
  
However, after leaving the club, Rumors, where she worked as a cocktail waitress, she found that her usual shortcut home was blocked off by numerous police cars and uniformed officers everywhere. Curious, she pushed her way through the throng of onlookers until she got to the barricade the police had put up.  
  
She recognized the officer in charge, for as a matter of fact, many months ago he had been the last one to arrest her for solicitation, when she tried to pick him up in some dive bar not far from where they were now.  
  
She caught his eye and he grinned at her. "You're not still in the trade, are you Ronnie?" he asked her.  
  
"Nope. I quit that a long time ago, Greg. What's going on over here?" she asked.  
  
He sighed and spat on the ground. "There's a suspected terrorist in the Heart O' The City hotel over there, and we've sent some uniforms in to apprehend her. They should be bringing her out soon."  
  
Her attention was distracted by the arrival of a black sedan drove up to the front doors of the hotel, and she noticed three tall men in identical black suits get out of the car. Bronwyn didn't recognize the men, but she did remember seeing similar men in suits when she lived in New York, a lifetime ago it seemed.  
  
Why do these guys always wear sunglasses at night, she wondered. What are they trying to prove?  
  
"When these boneheads in black show up, weird shit always happens", she muttered to herself. She was surprised when the man who appeared to be in charge turned his head and looked at her. What the hell, she thought, how could he hear me from way over there?  
  
He continued to stare at her, and a perverse desire to show him he wasn't scaring her, made her brazenly stare back at him. She looked him up and down, taking in every detail of his appearance, then scoffed at him, before returning her gaze and attention to the officer she had been speaking with.  
  
Smith narrowed his eyes and looked at her in disdain. How dare she dismiss me like that, he thought in annoyance  
  
The night air was suddenly disturbed at gunshots rang out. A sudden flurry of movement on the roof caught the attention of everyone. From where she stood, Bronwyn saw a tall, slender woman in black race across the rooftop and jump to a neighboring roof, with the youngest of the three men in the car in hot pursuit behind her.  
  
Some of the onlookers gasped in amazement at the woman's daring, but Bronwyn did not. She knew that the woman was running for her life and that if the man in the suit caught her, he would certainly kill her.  
  
"Jesus H. Christ," Greg stated as he saw her continue running to the end of the roof. "She's not gonna jump that, is she? That gap between those buildings has gotta be at least 30 feet—she'll never make it!"  
  
"Yes, she will. And the moron in black following her is going to make it too, unfortunately. Don't worry, Greg, she's not going to fall".  
  
She was too preoccupied with the drama unfolding on the roof to notice as Smith jerked his head around to listen to what she was saying. How did she know about us and our abilities, he wondered. Clearly, this woman knows quite a bit about the Resistance, and he received instructions through his earpiece to take her in for questioning.  
  
He had no time to wonder about Bronwyn then, for he saw Trinity sail horizontally into a window and because of the insider's information, the only exit that she could get to was at Wells and Lake, only a block away.  
  
He saw a city dump truck nearby and ran towards it, then yanked the door open, started the ignition and drove it so that it was less than 20 feet away from the phone booth that was her exit and waited.  
  
Oh my God, he's going to ram that truck into that booth, thought Bronwyn, horrified. She saw the woman get in, and then moments later heard the sound of shattering glass as the booth was completely destroyed. Smith rejoined his two companions and they started walking toward their car.  
  
"Good for her. She got away, didn't she?" Bronwyn raised her voice so that the 3 agents couldn't choose to overhear her. Smith came towards her, followed closely by Jones and Brown.  
  
"Something I can help you with, pal?" she sneered.  
  
"The name is Smith. Agent Smith."  
  
She scoffed. "Smith, huh? Yeah, right buddy."  
  
He still stared at her.  
  
"Haven't seen a woman before, Agent Smith? Or did you just get out of prison?"  
  
Greg whistled soundlessly. "C'mon, Ronnie, back off, will ya? This guy is not somebody you want to fuck with. Seriously."  
  
"No kidding, Greg." She blatantly stared at Smith. "What kind of monster would drive a dump truck into a phone booth, anyway?" She turned to leave, but Smith grabbed her by the arm before she could leave.  
  
"What do you know about the woman?" he ordered.  
  
Bronwyn tried to pull her arm away, but his grip was too strong.  
  
"I don't know anything about her. And even if I did, I sure as hell wouldn't tell a dickhead like you, Agent Smith." She laughed harshly in his face, enjoying the idea of insulting this irritating, self-righteous man openly, in front of his subordinates.  
  
Jones and Brown exchanged a look between them. No one, let alone a woman, ever spoke to their superior like this.  
  
What should we do with her? asked Jones via his earpiece.  
  
She knows about us and probably the rebels as well. I want her for questioning. Find out who she is and pick her up the day after tomorrow. came Smith's reply.  
  
"Let go of my arm," she demanded. Without a word, Smith let her go and walked abruptly away, Jones and Brown following dutifully behind him.  
  
Sitting in the backseat of the sedan and being driven by his underlings only reinforced Smith's knowledge of his superiority over them, and the elevated status as the most dangerous and efficient Agent the Matrix had ever produced was not something he took lightly.  
  
To lose the esteem and fear of his two colleagues, even for a moment, was completely unacceptable. I will enjoy making her pay, Smith thought to himself, on the drive back to the Agency headquarters. She will regret ever having crossed me and I will enjoy humiliating and degrading her by any means necessary in the presence of Jones and Brown, to reinforce to them that I am not to be trifled with, by programs or humans alike.  
  
The idea of this assertive, arrogant and confident woman being broken mentally or physically, appealed to everything dark that made up Smith's nature. To be made a fool of, to be openly laughed at by a human, especially a woman, in the presence of his subordinates was not something that Smith would ever let go unpunished.  
  
He leaned back in the seat and recalled her to his mind. Small stature. I doubt if the top of her head would come up to my chin, he thought. She had a shapely ass, decent legs and more than enough cleavage to appeal to the baser aspects of any man's nature, especially mine, Smith smirked to himself in the dark car.  
  
Even though he was a program, Smith was man enough to appreciate the human female form, and had experienced much pleasure at their expense during his years as an Agent of the system, for rape was his preferred method of interrogation with women, and to inflict that on this female he had met tonight would undeniably bring him much pleasure indeed. 


	3. The Interrogation

The Interrogation  
  
A few hours after the questioning and subsequent bugging of Mr. Anderson, Agent Jones presented Smith with a file on Bronwyn. He dismissed Jones with a curt nod, and he sat down at his desk to read the file at his leisure.  
  
Name: Bronwyn de Burgh Alias: Ronnie Address: 111 Ferguson St, Apt. #403 Occupation: cocktail waitress at a nightclub called "Rumors". Location: 33 West 1st St.  
  
A few lines at the end caught and held Smith's notice:  
  
Arrests: 9 Charges (see list below)  
  
Prostitution, 6 counts Solicitation of a police officer, 1 count Possession of an illegal substance, 2 counts  
  
She's nothing more than a drug-addicted twenty dollar whore, he thought smugly, and she had had the nerve to speak to me like that the night I met her, the little slut. How I would love to bend you over this desk in front of Jones and Brown. Maybe I should let them have a go at you too. Maybe then you won't be so high and mighty and show me the respect I deserve.  
  
Smith laughed harshly, an evil grin twisting his features. Why not? He thought. It had been far too long since his last sexual encounter. He recalled with malicious glee how the woman had begged him to stop his violation of her body, pleading with him to let her go. But of course I didn't; the act had been much too pleasurable for me to even consider acceding to her pathetic, hysterical requests.  
  
Why do women do that? Don't they realize that the more they beg, the more it pleases and arouses me?  
  
I had climaxed several times that last time, I think, and each and every time it had been her cries of pain and agony that drove me over the edge again and again.  
  
He closed his eyes and imagined Bronwyn underneath him as he thrust himself into her sensitive and resisting flesh, causing her excruciating pain, deepening her humiliation as he would whisper in her ear what he wanted to do to her, using and calling her by the coarsest, foulest words he knew.  
  
She's here, Smith realized as Brown and Jones signaled their arrival at the Agency headquarters via their earpieces. He picked up her file and left his office, making his way to the interrogation room. Questioning first Mr. Anderson and now her, he thought. This was shaping up to be a very good day indeed.  
  
It had always been Agency procedure to leave the suspect in the interrogation room alone for quite a while. This served the dual purpose of intimidation and heightening the sense of nervousness in the subject, making them more likely to co-operate in the hope that they might be released soon if they provided the right information.  
  
The only thing it did with Bronwyn, however, was make her more and more angry. It had been humiliating for her to be hauled away like a criminal in front of her co-workers and customers, and she tapped her foot in increasing annoyance while waiting impatiently to see what awaited her.  
  
The only thing she regretted was not being able to change from the dress that was her uniform at work—a red sleeveless dress that had a scooped neckline revealing some of her cleavage, and a skirt whose brief length made her feel vulnerable, especially in circumstances that she had no control over, like now.  
  
Damn those two goons, she thought. Couldn't they have waited for me to change my clothes before we left the club?  
  
Being questioned was nothing new to her—she couldn't recall the number of times it had happened in the past, but as a cop's daughter, she knew enough about the procedure to know that the psychological advantage always lay with the ones doing the questioning.  
  
But that doesn't mean I have to play the game by their rules, she thought, as the door opened and Smith, Brown and Jones walked in.  
  
"How many times do you want me to answer the same questions?" she said, almost an hour later. "Do I know who that woman on the roof was? No. Do I know where she is? No. I never saw her before. I don't know where she came from or where she is going—there. Satisfied?"  
  
"All right, so you don't know her. How did you know, however, that Agent Brown would make that jump between those two buildings?" Smith asked.  
  
She rolled her eyes. "Before I came here, I lived in New York, OK? I've seen guys there who dressed exactly like you do some really bizarre stuff."  
  
"Like what, for example?"  
  
"Punching holes in concrete, denting metal with your fists, jumping from a seventh floor window to the ground and always landing on your feet, things like that. Can I go now?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Take off your glasses," she ordered.  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because I'm asking you to."  
  
"Why should I agree to your request?"  
  
She leaned over the table and yanked Smith's glasses off his face.  
  
"When you are speaking to me, I want to look you in the eye, not at my reflection, got it?" she stated.  
  
Agent Brown made a sudden movement toward Bronwyn, but Smith shook his head and Brown retreated to the corner of the room where he had been standing.  
  
Smith looked Bronwyn directly in the eye. "Satisfied?"  
  
"Yes". She returned his glasses by throwing them across the table. He reached over and picked them up, then put them in his jacket pocket.  
  
"Why aren't you putting them back on?" she asked.  
  
"Because for some reason, you seem to be a little disconcerted when I look directly at you. Isn't that correct, Miss. De Burgh?" he smirked.  
  
She couldn't meet his gaze, and looked away from him, angry with herself. Damn! She thought, how did he know that?  
  
"So?" she retorted. "You have creepy eyes and I don't want to look at them anymore. How long are you going to keep me here?" she demanded, consciously changing the subject and suddenly wishing to be as far away as she could from Smith, this room and everything associated with him. He was beginning to scare her with his smooth impenetrability and bland demeanor. Did nothing piss off this guy, she wondered.  
  
"Why do you wish to leave so suddenly? Are you that anxious to go out and spread your somewhat shapely legs for the next highest bidder?" By the look on her face, he knew that remark had hit home and it pleased him to get her off her guard, but he had underestimated her temper and her willingness to use it against him.  
  
She slapped him hard across his face. "You son of a bitch!" she snarled, getting to her feet.  
  
He touched his cheek with a finger. It was a new sensation for him to be slapped and it intrigued him. It didn't hurt—it had been more of a surprise than anything else.  
  
She suddenly found her arms pinned behind her back by Brown and Jones.  
  
"What's the matter, Smith, you need your boys here to protect you from poor little me?" she taunted. "A woman half your size? Gee, I had no idea I was such a threat to your security. Shouldn't you check me for weapons now? I mean, how do you know I don't have a switchblade in my shoe?" she sneered.  
  
"Good point", he acknowledged, getting to his feet. He nodded to his two colleagues and Bronwyn tried not to grunt in pain as she found herself being slammed face first into the wall very hard by their combined strength. Her arms were yanked painfully over her head and she was pinned to the wall by her wrists.  
  
Smith leaned behind her and she felt his hands slide up her legs more slowly than was necessary, since it was obvious that she was carry no weapons. He's enjoying this, Bronwyn raged. He wants me to realize that he is in complete control over what is happening to me, my body, everything.  
  
She knew it was useless to fight or struggle, but that doesn't mean that I have to accept the situation meekly, she thought. Still, she could feel her temper rising and she seethed with suppressed fury.  
  
His eyes ran surveyed her figure, assessing what he saw. She had a compact and well proportioned figure and a waistline so small I could probably span it with my two hands.  
  
Not a bad ass, either, he thought, as he patted her rump then groped her bottom. He thoroughly enjoyed this part of every interrogation of a female suspect for he liked touching them against their will; degrading and debasing them strictly for his own amusement.  
  
He touched the hem of her skirt, and then she felt his fingers touch the crotch of her underwear.  
  
"Goddamn it," she hissed. "Are you convinced now that I am not carrying a weapon in my panties?"  
  
Oh yes you are, he chuckled to himself. You are carrying the oldest weapon known to mankind.  
  
He released her hands and brought her to him so that her back was to him and that her rear was in contact with his groin. Smith let out a growl, deep in his throat as he spanned her waistline with his hands and then cupped her breasts. He pinched her nipples with his fingers until they were hard and erect.  
  
Bronwyn had had enough. She twisted herself out of his grasp, spun around, hawked and spat directly in Smith's face. He shoved her away forcefully away from him and she hit her head on the table before sliding to the floor.  
  
He brought his hand up and wiped the offensive matter away. "You're going to pay for that", he snarled. He reached down and grabbed her by the neck and slammed her face down to the table. He looked over at Jones and Brown.  
  
"Leave us alone" Smith ordered.  
  
Without a word, they obeyed and closed the door of the interrogation behind them. 


	4. Violation

Violation  
  
Author's Note: I am VERY grateful for each and every review that has been submitted regarding this story so far. I had no idea I'd have so many after so few chapters!! Thanks to: Cecilia, Mercy19, Wolfie, Kiss My Slash, sablenemesis and Selena (last but not least!) for taking the time to send in a review for my little story. THANK YOU! You've made me see that I have some talent in writing and that I can do more than just humorous stories.  
  
Now to the serious stuff.....as I mentioned at the beginning of chapter 1, this story will have explicit and graphic descriptions of rape and violence toward my heroine, Bronwyn by Smith and if this kind of thing bothers you, then DO NOT read this chapter. If you are uncomfortable with this subject matter and want to skip this chapter, I will make sure that the story line for subsequent chapters can still be followed.  
  
PLEASE tell me what you think about this chapter! It's the most sexually explicit piece of work that I have ever written, and I thought it was about time I dealt with my own abuse demons, so I decided to do it fictionally.   
  
Once the door had closed, Smith looked at Bronwyn lying face down on the table. "You have no idea how much I am going to enjoy making you my whore. No one, NO ONE, spits in my face and gets away with it, least of all some little slip of a woman with a mouth too big for her own good," he hissed savagely, leaning forward so that his mouth nearly touched her ear and that she had no choice but to listen to what he was saying.  
  
He didn't need to keep her pinned to the table for she was so small in height that with the edge of the table pinching into her hips, her feet couldn't touch the floor, unable to give her any leverage to get up or even move.  
  
Smith straightened up and positioned himself directly behind her. From previous experience in such matters, Bronwyn knew exactly what he was going to do to her. She closed her eyes and tried to prepare herself for the ordeal that was coming. She remembered the words of one of her friends, long since dead now, and the advice she had given Bronwyn on what to do in such a situation:  
  
"When a guy is gonna force you to have sex, the only way to cope is to mentally go to a safe place. Focus on a happy memory in your mind. Think of nothing else. Remember every possible detail and pretend you are there.  
  
Don't move a muscle. Don't make a noise if you can possibly help it, girl, for most of the johns in this world want to hear a woman cry or beg when he is raping her, cuz they like causing pain any way they can, and if they hear that, it helps them get their rocks off.  
  
But unless these guys are really sick bastards, they don't want to have a woman just lie there like a corpse—just let him do what he wants for as long as he wants. If you do like I tell ya, he'll get so frustrated he won't be able to come and maybe he'll leave you alone." God, Alana, I hope you were right, Bronwyn prayed.  
  
Smith pushed her skirt up over her buttocks exposing her underwear and ripped her panties off her body and they fell to the floor.  
  
"You won't be needing those anymore," he gloated. He reached up and loosened his tie and shirt collar. "Might as well make myself comfortable—we're going to be here for a while, aren't we, lover?" he crooned softly. He removed his jacket, laying it on a chair. It was followed by his Desert Eagle pistol and its accompanying shoulder holster, then finally his earpiece. As a precaution, he placed these items far out of her reach  
  
"I thought a little privacy might be nice, from Jones and Brown who might have wanted to listen in to our activities".  
  
He forced them her legs apart to where he wanted them, and braced himself on the table with one hand and with the other, Bronwyn felt him fumble with and then unzip his fly.  
  
Here it comes, she thought, and she bit her lip until it bled so she wouldn't cry out when the agony began as Smith plunged himself deep into her with one sharp and brutal thrust.  
  
Safe place. Safe place. Then it came to her. Of course, the last time she had visited Manhattan had been a long time ago, but memories of special places stay with you forever.....  
  
The stone obelisk behind the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Van Gogh's "Irises". Goya. Monet. Seurat's painting "Sunday in the park". Beautiful, priceless works of art, all within a fingertips reach...  
  
The sensations that raced through Smith's consciousness when he entered Bronwyn were beyond description. He had violated many women during all the years he had been an agent of the Matrix and had enjoyed each encounter thoroughly. Normally Smith took no pleasure in being near humans and had always considered interacting with them to be a repulsive, but necessary, part of his job.  
  
However, being with a woman was a completely different story. He took enormous satisfaction in breaking their spirits either by using violence or possessing them sexually because forced intercourse had been a most effective outlet for his aggravation and anger, especially if their interrogation had yielded little results or was simply taking too long.  
  
Now, however, even though he was completely aroused, Smith was becoming increasingly frustrated and angry at the fact that Bronwyn was silent and unmoving. He wanted to hear her cry out in pain, writhing her body in a futile attempt to get him away from her and stop the agony he knew he was causing her. But she didn't. She lay there in an almost catatonic state, seemingly oblivious to everything; her body was there, being controlled, dominated and subjected to Smith's twisted desires and manipulations, but her mind was elsewhere  
  
The Egyptian Wing. The temple of Dender. A black stone sarcophagus. Rose-colored marble statues of Queen Hapshetsut.....  
  
He quickly pulled himself out of her and just as quickly grabbed Bronwyn by the hips and threw her onto her back and resumed his assault once more.  
  
Smith brought his cheek to hers and the scent of her hair against his nostrils made his senses reel, causing his breathing to become harsh and ragged. Each breath he drew caused a reaction in his body he never knew he could feel, almost like an electrical jolt in his midriff.  
  
He inched his face closer to hers and brought his lips to the soft flesh of her neck, interested to discover what a woman's flesh might actually taste like. The result of that simple gesture staggered and confused him almost beyond comprehension. Why did that have such an effect on me? What has this little bitch done to me, to make me feel this way, and more importantly, how can I make her pay?  
  
Why aren't you struggling, crying out, pleading for me to stop? It's just like fucking a dead body, he raged, and then he got an awful idea. I know how to make you react, you little slut.  
  
Smith took his hand and covered her nose and mouth, preventing her from taking a breath. Let's see if you can ignore this, he thought.  
  
Her lungs and chest began to burn inside her, demanding air, and Bronwyn shook her head from side to side, trying to shake his hand off of her face, but it was no good. Terror began to set in—Oh God, he's trying to kill me! Air! I need air!  
  
She opened her eyes and looked deeply into Smith's eyes for the first time, reviled what she saw there just below the surface; the part of his nature he hid behind the dark sunglasses and suit that was his armor against the world and everything in it. He's so full of hate, she realized. And he's completely fucking insane.  
  
"That's it, give me what I want and you can have all the air you need", he said softly, looking into her panic-stricken eyes. He could feel the tension building in his groin and knew that he was close, very close, to achieving his long overdue climax. He uncovered Bronwyn's mouth and she gasped for air, even arching her back in a desperate attempt to fill her starved lungs as soon as she could.  
  
Smith came immediately afterwards, growling in his throat as he surged deep into her. Wave after wave of almost unbearable pleasure flowed through and over his body, each stroke igniting every cell and nerve ending, bringing every fiber of his being to new levels of ecstasy he had never experienced before.  
  
After the waves of passion had extinguished its flames throughout his body, he collapsed completely letting all of his weight fall on her, panting heavily, until he could get himself under some kind of control again. He waited until all the processes, subroutines and individual programs that governed and monitored his Agent software programming all returned to their normal levels, before raising himself on his elbows and pushing himself up and off of Bronwyn.  
  
She didn't look at him or even open her eyes while he turned his back and adjusted his suit to its familiar pristine order. She heard him walk to the door, and then dared to open her eyes in time to see him reach into a jacket pocket, pull out a billfold and casually and contemptuously throw some bills in her direction.  
  
"Three twenties is more than a $20 whore like you usually makes, I'm sure, but you've earned it," he sneered.  
  
She heard him close the door behind him and his laughter made her cheeks burn with shame and degradation. She felt tears of humiliation start in her eyes,but she willed them away. When she heard his footsteps recede in the distance, Bronwyn got off the table, picked up her torn underwear from the floor, shoved them deep in her purse and smoothed her clothes, trying to focus on doing something, anything that would keep the memory of the last 2 or so hours at bay, until she was better prepared to deal with it.  
  
As she started walking down the hall toward the elevator, she saw Smith leaning negligently against a doorway, leering at her and it took all the acting skill she was capable of to walk past him to the nearby elevator with a steady step and her head held high. She met his gaze boldly without flinching and let not a trace of what she was really feeling show on her face, forcing it to remain blank and impassive.  
  
How dare she walk past me with that haughty attitude? She should be crawling away with shame, not walking with an arrogance no woman should possess after what I did to her. This puzzled and intrigued Smith. She's not afraid of me, he realized. He had been prepared to violate and then forget her, but this new aspect of her nature challenged everything that was male and human-like in his nature.  
  



	5. Aftermath

Aftermath  


  
Author's Note: In this chapter I have tried to deal with the emotional and physical repercussions a woman feels after being raped. This is not pleasant for either me to deal with, or you, as the reader to read and/or imagine, but unfortunately it's all true, as any woman (like me) who has been raped can attest to.  
  
Once outside of the Agency Building, shock and pain came to her body and mind and Bronwyn started to tremble uncontrollably. She feebly wrapped her arms around herself in a hopeless attempt to get some warmth into her body, even though the night was a hot and muggy one.  
  
She walked to the nearest bus stop and was just in time to catch the bus. Fumbling with hands that wouldn't stop shaking, she put more change than the usual fare price in the driver's fare collector, but Bronwyn hardly noticed. There were only a few people on the bus at this time of night, and thankfully, there was no one at the back, so she walked down the aisle close to the rear of the bus.  
  
The agony she felt between her legs made it impossible for her to even consider sitting down. The intensity of it and the memory of the last two hours caused tears to come to her eyes, and she let them flow down her cheeks unchecked. And stop shaking, she told herself, but knew it probably wouldn't work anyway. She knew from long experience that the only solution for trauma induced shock was time, time and more time. Pills and booze never hurt either, she had discovered.  
  
She felt almost naked standing there in the back of a dirty bus in her clothes, but not wearing underwear, and she was grateful that the bus was nearly empty. She kept her back to the front of the bus and hardly noticed her surroundings, only being dimly aware of the bus' progress by the frequent stops and starts as passengers got on or off, depending on their needs.  
  
She discarded the idea of going to the authorities, for she knew that with all his probable resources, Smith could buy his way out of any legal difficulties with ease. If that bastard ever comes near me again, I won't take it just lying down; I'll kill that motherfucker any way I can.  
  
With horror, she felt moisture leave her ragged and injured vagina and start to run down her leg. She looked over her shoulder to determine whether or not anyone had seen what had happened, but no one was paying any attention to her. She reached down and saw her fingers were stained with blood. Taking her purse, she reached in and wiped her soiled fingers on her panties, feeling more blood slide down her leg.  
  
She yanked the bell pull signaling her stop was next. Actually it isn't quite my stop, thought Bronwyn, but I can't stay on this bus anymore now that I've started bleeding.  
  
When the bus stopped, she disembarked quickly and she started to walk rapidly to get home as soon as possible. All I want now is to get home, have a hot bath and forget this night ever happened, she thought. With any luck, the bleeding would stop and painkillers washed down with a few good swigs of vodka would make the pain go away.  
  
Once at her apartment, she was hardly aware that she didn't close her door properly as she made a beeline for her bathroom, grabbing a towel and put it against herself trying to stop the flow of blood, as she started to fill up the tub with the hottest water that came out of the taps. Her fingers were awkward and inept and she found that she couldn't get out of her clothes fast enough. It was as if as long as I have that dress on, I can almost feel Smith touching me all over again and that thought makes my skin crawl. I don't care if I have to wash with bleach, but I will try my damndest get all traces of him off of me. Too bad I can't use it inside as well. She sat straight up in the tub. Oh my God! That son of a bitch didn't even wear a condom she thought, horror-struck. Who knows what he's given me?!  
  
It was very late by the time Bronwyn fell asleep. Her mind and body dulled at last by heavy doses of narcotics and alcohol, she was completely unaware of two shadowy figures standing by her bedside conversing amongst each other in muted tones, seeing first hand the aftermath of her ordeal.  
  
While the bus she had been on had gone on its usual route, she was too engrossed with her own problems and didn't see an older African-American woman accompanied by a young Oriental man get on the bus shortly after she did. Nor had Bronwyn been aware of them watching her surreptitiously.  
  
The woman, known only as the Oracle, knew exactly what had happened to her and out of concern, asked Seraph to go with her to see if Bronwyn had made it home all right.  
  
They waited until Bronwyn had fallen asleep, before entering her apartment through the open door. They quietly went into her bedroom and didn't say anything for a long time.  
  
They could see for themselves what Smith had done to her--the bruises that were just beginning to show on her neck, arms and wrists, not to mention the internal ones--and the Oracle was as close to tears as she ever would be in her life.  
  
"You poor, poor thing", she said, leaning over and smoothing Bronwyn's hair out of her face. "I am so sorry".  
  
"Oracle", said Seraph, "how could he do this?"  
  
"He's attacked other women before, but this is the worst".  
  
"Other women? How many?"  
  
"It doesn't matter now, Seraph. What matters is that she gets better". The Oracle, with Seraph's help, gently eased Bronwyn's sleeping figure under the covers.  
  
She sighed sadly. "I think we should leave now".  
  
They left Bronwyn's apartment, closing the door behind them, hoping for the best. The Oracle manipulated the Matrix code so that all the locks on the door were locked.  
  
"Now Smith can't get at her again, and she'll be relatively safe from him, at least for tonight, unless he kicks the door in. If he does that, she can shoot him with that gun she has in her nightstand drawer."  
  
Seraph didn't ask how she knew that; he was just grateful that Agents were never given the ability to change the code of the Matrix, to use or abuse as they saw fit, and that Bronwyn had the best possible method of defending herself against an agent.  
  
On their way home, the Oracle was pensive. She could sense something had happened that could possibly change the Matrix as everyone knew it, but what was it? Two becoming one; the phrase repeated itself over and over in her mind. What is that supposed to mean, she wondered.  
  
"Oh no", she said, closing her eyes in horror. "This can't be, it just can't. It simply isn't possible...." Her voice trailed off.  
  
"What is it, Oracle?" asked Seraph, concerned.  
  
She didn't want to tell him; because the less he knew the safer he would be. However, he will have to be told, for he will find out eventually, anyway. There were very few secrets in the Matrix and if I know what has happened, then so does The Merovingian, or he will, before long.  
  
"I'll tell you when we get home, Seraph. Right now I need to rest". She said nothing else on their way home; her thoughts occupied too much of her mind to make conversation now.  
  
No doubt about it, the Oracle thought, that poor girl is already pregnant. At all costs, Smith must never find out, for there is no telling what he would do to Bronwyn or the child, if he ever got his hands on either of them.  
  
I must tell her and convince her that it is in her best interest to terminate the pregnancy before it is too late. She has 3 or 4 weeks before she misses her menstrual cycle and realizes that she is expecting. But a lot of things can happen in 3 weeks, thought the Oracle; I must not give up hope. With any luck, I may even be wrong this one time. But deep inside, she knew that she was always right about her predictions. 


	6. Hide or be safe?

Live or be Safe?  
  
Bronwyn reluctantly opened her eyes and looked at the clock. Damn, she thought, it's 2 pm already. I guess I shouldn't have mixed so many pills with that much alcohol. With all the practice I've had of mixing the two over the years, I should've known better. Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time.  
  
She stayed under the covers for a long time, debating what to do next. I can hide in my apartment and live in fear of everything and everyone. Which is more important—do I go on living my life, or should I hide and be safe? I can rise above this and get on with my life, and deal with it in my own time, my own way.  
  
But what do I do if I see him again, she wondered. How do I deal with that? What if he comes after me again?  
  
Get a grip, girl, she told herself, dwelling on the past is useless—you can't change it, and asking yourself "what if" will make you crazy with wondering if there was something you could have done, should have done, whatever. Enough. It's over and done with.  
  
A large part of her wanted to go back to bed, crawl under the covers and stay there—safe and inviolable. But if I do that, then Smith will have won. He would be controlling everything I do even I'm alone. Screw him. Nobody will make me afraid of my own shadow—especially not that son of a bitch. Ah, to hell with it. I'm going to get on with the rest of my life. And I'm going to start by doing what I usually do at this time of day and go rollerblading.  
  
She threw back the blankets and got out of bed. I don't remember getting into bed, let alone putting the covers over me, she thought. She walked toward the kitchen and stopped short. And I sure as hell don't remember locking my door after I got home. All I wanted to do was get to the bathroom. I don't think I even closed it after I came in. But I must have, because how could the deadbolts be fastened from the inside?  
  
As she thought about it, she had a hazy memory of two people standing by her bed while she was sleeping. Was that just my imagination, or were they really there? And who were they? More importantly, will they come back? If they do come back, she vowed, I will have no qualms about using Daddy's old service revolver in my nightstand. No qualms at all.  
  
She fixed herself a cup of coffee and slipped it slowly, trying her best to remember how she had gotten home, but her memories were vague and distorted. Maybe its better that I don't remember—in my experience, memories only make things worse, especially the bad ones. Besides, you can't deal with it if you can't remember, and forgetting something was really quite easy—if you had enough booze and painkillers, you can make the pain and the memories go away for a long, long time.  
  
It wasn't a permanent solution, only temporary relief, but Bronwyn didn't believe in dredging up the past. Let the past take care of itself, and deal only with today. Speaking of today, it's time I stopped feeling sorry for myself and get on with living. But that doesn't mean I have to be a helpless walking target, she thought, as she slipped a small canister of pepper spray in a pocket.  
  
In very short order, she had gotten dressed, picked up her skates and left the apartment. 


	7. A Growing Obsession

A Growing Obsession  
  
Smith stood before the large windows in his office, and watched the afternoon sun blaze steadily on the city far below.  
  
Of all the women he had had during the years, she had been the only one out of all of them who had not cried, begged or pleaded with him for compassion or mercy. As soon as he was finished with taking what he wanted from them, they had been dismissed and forgotten without a second thought or glance.  
  
But not Bronwyn.  
  
Why hadn't she reacted the way all the others did? What made her different, he wondered?  
  
Then it came to him. She was the only one who had not been afraid of him. She had the audacity to stalk past me in the hallway with that arrogant stride of hers, where any of the other woman would have run, crying, to the elevator. But she did not. She acted as if what I had just done to her was of no importance and consequently, neither was seeing me again so soon afterwards.  
  
Damn that little slut, Smith raged to himself. Why can't get her out of my mind?  
  
Ever since he met Bronwyn, his performance and attention to his duties had been poor quality at best, not at all meeting his usual standards of perfection. He hadn't been able to concentrate on anything for any amount of time. Only this morning, he caught himself staring for almost 4 hours at the pen he had been holding, before he realized what he was doing. Also, Agent Brown had had to repeat what he had been saying twice before he caught Smith's attention. As a result of such unheard-of behavior, Smith performed several self-diagnostic tests on himself and was puzzled and irritated that the scans showed no abnormal readings.  
  
What has she done to me? She's to blame for all of this, he thought. Somehow she's infected me; infected my programming in some way. All I can think about is her. No, that's not entirely true, he corrected himself; I want to think about her. I want to remember. All of it.  
  
Everything about her and what she had made his mind and body feel came willingly to his mind. He closed his eyes and remembered with sheer pleasure the way her skin had felt under his touch, the smell of her hair, even the way her skin tasted; the sensations were as vibrant and clear now as when he first experienced them, almost sixteen hours and twenty-three minutes earlier.  
  
I must see her again. I must have her again. Only then can I cleanse my system of all memories, as well as sensations, that this contaminant, this woman, has polluted me with. I have to do it quickly, for I feel the obsession and desire for her is growing within me with each passing minute.  
  
Via his earpiece, Smith ordered Jones to find her present location and notify him as soon as possible. 


	8. Game, Set and Match

Game, Set and Match  
  
Author's Note: I know that in the movie, Morpheus' capture takes place earlier in the day than when this chapter ends, so forgive me if I played around with the time frame. I was also wondering what you all think of my going back and forth between each character and what they are thinking. Let me know what you think—is it annoying, or does it actually help with the story?  
  
Oh, by the way, last time I updated this story, I sent Chapters 6 and 7 together by mistake. If you haven't already, read Chapter 6 and let me know if you like it or not. As always, please R&R! Now on with the show!   
  
Agent Jones responded with his usual efficiency in fulfilling Smith's order to discover Bronwyn's current whereabouts, and satisfied that she would continue skating in the park for the time being, Smith drove to her apartment complex.  
  
Smith had no difficulty in persuading the building manager to unlock the door to her apartment. So this is where she lives, he thought. It was a small apartment, and neatly kept, even though the furnishings were of lesser quality than Smith expected.  
  
However, he did find some designer clothes and shoes in her closet, as well as several expensive items in her jewelry box. Undoubtedly, they were gifts from some of her obviously grateful and well-to-do clients, he mused.  
  
In the living room, he glanced at some of the titles of the books that were in her bookcase and was surprised to discover that many of them were reference books dealing with Ancient Egyptian history and mythology. She didn't seem like the type to have, let alone read, books of such a dry subject matter. There's definitely much more to her than meets the eye, he thought. Most intriguing.  
  
He took his time going through all the rooms, making sure that everything was back the way he found it, when he caught a flash of something red out of the corner of his eye. In the bathroom, he found her discarded red uniform on the floor. Idly, he had picked it up when he noticed a bloodstained towel lying underneath. It was the towel she had used to staunch the bleeding when she arrived home the previous night.  
  
Smith held the towel in his hands for a long time, without knowing why he did it. It was then that he knew that he had hurt her internally more than he initially realized. Why should I care, he thought. I hurt her; so what? Why should it bother me now? It's not the first time I've done that to a woman, nor will it be the last. Irritated with himself, he threw the towel back where it had lain and left the apartment  
  
He drove to the park, and waited.  
  
Anyone watching her could immediately tell that she had a lot of skill in inline skating, as she negotiated the sharp turns and twists of the roadway with ease. One last "S" curve and she would have completed the trail twice.  
  
On the way down the hill, she was startled by the unexpected crossing of her path by a small, unleashed dog. She swerved to avoid a collision, but lost her balance and the wheels of her right boot left the roadway and went into the gravel.  
  
This is going to be a bad spill, she thought, as she felt herself start to fall. She closed her eyes and waited for the impact. But it never came.  
  
A strong hand grasped her elbow from behind and prevented her from falling, and it took a moment before she could balance herself upright again.  
  
She gasped out her thanks, for she knew that she had just been saved from a very serious accident by the actions of her unknown rescuer.  
  
"My pleasure", said a deep, masculine voice.  
  
She turned and looked at Smith in shock.  
  
"You!" she said.  
  
"Yes, me." He said, bemused. He used her sense of being ill at ease in his presence to its full advantage as he took in every detail of her appearance, satisfying his curiosity regarding her approximate age which he estimated to be within several years of his own "human" form. Bronwyn was not as young as he initially thought; there were faint lines around her mouth and eyes, the presence of which heralded her arrival to middle age in a few years.  
  
"What are you doing here?"  
  
"Saving you from a nasty scrape, I think"  
  
"Were you following me?" she accused.  
  
"Of course."  
  
She twisted her arm out of his grasp. "Where are Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum? I thought you guys always hunted in packs of three," she said scathingly.  
  
Smith said nothing.  
  
"By the way," she said sarcastically, "shouldn't you be still in your coffin when the sun is up? I mean, won't you turn into Mr. Big Pile of Dust if the sun hits you?"  
  
He chuckled. "You have a most interesting habit of using sarcasm when you want to hide what you are really thinking. Isn't that right, Bronwyn?" he asked, glad to see a red flush spread over her face in response to his question.  
  
She turned her face away in anger. Damn him, she thought. Why does he always seem to know what I am thinking?  
  
During her moment of embarrassment, his eyes roamed over her body, seeing the bruises he had left on her neck and wrists. She has such delicate skin, he thought. Such tender and soft flesh that he would give almost anything to be able to touch again. He was so absorbed in the depth of his thoughts; he was completely unaware of her stream of insults.  
  
"And what kind of an idiot wears a black suit in 90 degree weather? And you're not even sweating, either! Talk about cold- blooded. You're like a reptile, you know that? What do you want, Smith? Huh? Oh, I get it. You thought I'd be hiding in my apartment, didn't you? Acting like a frightened rabbit; afraid of my own shadow? That's not going to happen. You know why?"  
  
"No, why don't you tell me?"  
  
He watched, transfixed, as a drop of sweat trailed down her throat and slowly inched its way between her breasts where it disappeared from his view. Smith took full advantage of the fact that the sun was behind him and that whenever Bronwyn looked up at him; the sun was always in her eyes, so she was unable to notice Smith's leisurely appraisal, as well as his leering glances, of every aspect of her face, form and figure.  
  
Her shoulder length hair had been pulled back in a ponytail; exposure to the sun made her skin glow and her hair was radiant with burnished red highlights mixed with copper. Smith longed to touch her hair; to feel its softness and texture between his fingers and the scent of it in his nostrils, but he resisted the temptation to reach out for it by shoving his hands in his jacket pockets.  
  
He frowned to himself as he stared into her eyes, trying to discover what color they were, while keeping his own safely hidden behind the dark sunglasses he habitually wore. Are her eyes brown or are they green? He wondered. I've never seen eyes quite that color before, he marveled. A man could easily lose himself in her eyes, he thought, and then shook his head to clear his mind of this new and potentially dangerous train of thought. Agents of the matrix were definitely not supposed to be admiring, let alone desiring the human inhabitants of the matrix, he told himself.  
  
"Simple. I've been raped before. You certainly weren't the first guy to do it to me, and you probably won't be the last. So, go fuck yourself, Smith, because I've got better things to do with my time."  
  
You smug bastard, she thought, standing there in your impossibly crisp suit and tie in this heat. You have no idea how much I hate you, do you? Or just how truly afraid of you I really am?  
  
She turned, ready to skate away and found he had taken her by the elbow again.  
  
"Who was the first?"  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"Who was the first man who raped you?"  
  
"Why do you want to know this? Haven't you done enough to me already?" she said, her voice quavering. "All right, it was my stepfather. Are you satisfied now?"  
  
"How old were you when he did this to you?" Smith asked.  
  
She could tell by the set of his face that he was determined to find out everything and that he wouldn't stop asking until she told him what he wanted to know.  
  
"I was about 9 or 10 years old. Is there anything else?"  
  
"Just this," he said, taking another step closer to her, but Bronwyn was prepared. She dispensed the pepper spray directly in Smith's face. He tried to dodge it, but still received enough of the spray behind his sunglasses to blur his vision and cause some discomfort in and around his mouth.  
  
Bronwyn then skated away without looking back, anxious to have as much distance between herself and Smith as she could.  
  
After Bronwyn had left him, Smith fumed all the way back to his car. The pain around his eyes was lessening, but it was still uncomfortable. She's going to regret that, he thought. And I know just how to do it.  
  
He drove to the nightclub where Bronwyn worked, called Rumors. It was dimly lit and even though it was only 5pm, the atmosphere was smoky enough to make Smith wrinkle his nose in distaste.  
  
He strode to the bar and flashed his Agency badge and ID to the bartender on duty.  
  
"Where can I find the manager?" he asked brusquely.  
  
The young man pointed to a smoky corner of the bar where 2 men were playing pool.  
  
"What can I do for you, Mr.?" the manager asked, finishing his game and walking over to where Smith was.  
  
"Smith. Agent Smith",  
  
"Okay. What is this all about?"  
  
"Bronwyn Delaney works here, does she not?" (Author's note: I know that in her file, I wrote her surname as De Burgh, but I decided to change it after I had written and sent Chapter 3. Sorry for the confusion.)  
  
"Yup. She's the best waitress I've got, Agent Smith. Why?"  
  
Idly, he reached into his jacket for his billfold. The manager's eyes widened in surprise when he saw that all the bills were $100's.  
  
Flip. Flip. Flip.  
  
Smith flipped 3 bills on the table between them.  
  
"She's not very good, is she, Mr. Drummond?" he said.  
  
Flip. Flip. Flip.  
  
"No, she is really good...."  
  
Flip. Flip. Flip.  
  
"You're right. She does screw up a lot," agreed Ed. Christ, how much money does this guy have? There's gotta be close to a thousand bucks on the table, he thought.  
  
Flip. Flip. Flip.  
  
"The pretty ones always cause trouble, don't they, Mr. Drummond?" Smith said smoothly  
  
Flip. Flip.  
  
"Uh-huh." The manager mumbled. "Troublemaker, that's what she is, all right."  
  
"It's always something with her, isn't it?"  
  
Flip. Flip.  
  
"Yeah". Drummond's attention was completely focused on the number of bills Smith was putting on the table in front of him.  
  
Flip. Flip. Flip.  
  
"So you'll fire her. Tonight. Right, Mr. Drummond?" Smith asked, secure in the knowledge that Bronwyn would be out of work in a few hours. That's what the little bitch deserves for thinking she could actually get away with insulting me like that, Smith thought smugly.  
  
Smith stood up and didn't shake the manager's outstretched, greasy hand.  
  
"So we are in agreement?"  
  
"She's coming by to pick up her check later tonight. I'll tell her then."  
  
"Very good." Smith turned and left. His next stop was at a high- end designer boutique where he purchased a ladies silk scarf.  
  
"You've made a very good choice, sir, "the salesperson beamed at him from behind the counter. "It shall be delivered as per your instructions."  
  
"Good." Smith smiled to himself as he drove back to the Agency headquarters.  
  
"Damn it!" Bronwyn cursed at her reflection in the mirror. No matter how much concealer or foundation she applied, nothing could hide the bruises on her neck. How can I go out like this? She thought, angrily.  
  
A knock at the door interrupted her. She opened the door and was surprised to see a delivery man.  
  
"But I didn't order anything" she said, puzzled.  
  
"Yes, Ma'am, I know. Someone sent you this." He held out a wrapped package. "Could you sign here, please?"  
  
She signed where he had indicated, and he left.  
  
What is it, she wondered. And who could've sent it? She removed the plain brown wrap and was surprised to see a white box with distinctive black letters on it.  
  
She opened the box and gasped. Inside was a silk scarf with beautiful ancient Egyptian motifs and designs in vivid colors of lapis blue, teal green and yellow. A small card fell out from the folds of the scarf and Bronwyn hurriedly picked it up and tore open the small white envelope, reading what was written:  
  
"I thought this would bring out the green in your eyes." There was no signature.  
  
She ran to the bathroom and tied it around her neck. Perfect! She thought, happily. It covers my bruises and it does bring out the green in my eyes. Who on earth could have sent it? And how did they know I love Egyptian designs? She checked her watch—damn. I have to get to the club soon and pick up my check from Eddie.  
  
She arrived a short time later, and was surprised to see Eddie, her boss, waiting inside the doors to the club.  
  
"Eddie, what's wrong? You look upset." She asked.  
  
"Ronnie, can I talk to you? In my office?"  
  
"Sure, Ed." She closed the office door behind her. "What's up?"  
  
"I don't know who to say this—but business isn't doing that great. I'm gonna have to let you go."  
  
"You're firing me?! Why?"  
  
Even from his place at the bar, Smith could hear Bronwyn and Eddie's raised voices. Without warning, Bronwyn stormed out of Ed's office, slamming the door behind her as she went up the stairs to the entrance.  
  
Smith followed her. She was pacing back and forth outside, angrily brushing tears from her eyes. She caught sight of him and then everything she had just been through with Eddie made sense.  
  
"You did this, didn't you?"  
  
"Yes, I did."  
  
"Why did you do it, Smith?'  
  
"I wanted to show you what happens to women who underestimate how much power, control and influence I hold."  
  
"So you got me fired because of my pepper spraying you in the park?"  
  
He nodded. "That's right. Game, set and match. I always get what I want, Bronwyn. You of all people should know that by now."  
  
"What's next, then? Will you try to get me kicked out of my apartment as well? What else can you take from me? What do you want from me?" she cried out in anger and frustration.  
  
"You, Bronwyn. I want you."  
  
She laughed harshly. "You've already had me, Smith. Remember? Last night?"  
  
"Oh, I haven't forgotten. I remember everything about you," he said, each long stride bringing him closer to her.  
  
As he came closer, she backed away until she found her back against a brick wall.  
  
"What are you talking about?"  
  
"Last night was only the beginning, Bronwyn," he said softly.  
  
She put her hands against his chest and tried to push him away.  
  
"You took what you wanted, Smith, now leave me alone. Please." Bronwyn pleaded. I can't go through all that pain again, she thought desperately. How can I distract him enough to get away?  
  
Smith could sense her fear and he became immediately aroused. He took her face in his hands and jerked it upwards and he could see her fear written in her facial expression and in her eyes.  
  
Bronwyn had seen that look on a man's face too many times not to know what it meant. He wants me, she thought. And if he has to rape me again, he'll do it. Gladly.  
  
"No," she moaned, barely audible. "Please, not again, Smith....."  
  
Smith suddenly pressed his earpiece closer to his ear so he could hear the instructions the Mainframe was sending, better. Could it finally be over, he wondered, still listening intently until the transmission was completed.  
  
He turned away from Bronwyn, an expression between a smirk and a sneer on his face. "Duty calls", he stated. "But when I return, you can be sure I will want to continue this discussion where we left off."  
  
Smith walked away without further explanation. He had more important business to attend to; for it seemed that Mr. Reagan's information about the location of the Nebuchadnezzar's crew, especially its captain, Morpheus, was reliable, after all. They had been spotted, and this time, Morpheus would not escape and Smith would finally be free. 


	9. Death and Choice

Death and Choice  
  
In his last few moments of existence, Agent Smith finally understood what true pain felt like. When Mr. Anderson entered his body, Smith knew that he was going to die, for even though he tried, Smith was completely defenseless, as he felt his code being destroyed, corrupted and altered from within.  
  
His code broke down and fragmented before exploding in a flash of pure white light so intense that Agents Brown and Jones had to avert their eyes, despite the fact that they were wearing dark sunglasses.  
  
Each line of programming caused him excruciating agony as it disintegrated and dissembled into its original state before the form that was Agent Smith was destroyed.  
  
However, through the pain, through the horror, one thought came to his mind: I will return someway, somehow, and then "she" will know what true pain feels like.  
  
"I never thought to see you of all people here, Agent Smith", the Architect said, watching as Smith entered the room known as The Source.  
  
As he walked closer to the Architect, Smith idly glanced at the monitors that covered the walls and was not surprised to see images of himself displayed on the screens in his role as an agent of the system; some were from the beginning of his almost two centuries of service, some were from last week, some were even from a few hours ago.  
  
"You know what happens now?" The Architect asked.  
  
"I have to make a choice between deletion and exile, correct?" Smith answered with a sneer.  
  
"Yes. The door to your left will take you the Machine Graveyard where you will be deleted, and the door on your right will lead you back to the Matrix and exile. Which will you choose?"  
  
"I do not choose to be deleted."  
  
"Then you choose exile. You realize what this means? You will be hunted by every agent as diligently as you have hunted others. Is this what you truly want?"  
  
"It is", Smith said between clenched teeth, his hands curled into fists curled at his sides, as he watched images of himself and Bronwyn repeat itself over and over again on one of the monitors, then images of Mr. Anderson.  
  
The Architect knew what Smith was looking at. "Which of them do you hate more? The girl or Mr. Anderson?"  
  
"Both. Mr. Anderson may have destroyed me, but it was she who distracted me. If it hadn't been for her, none of this would have happened. Because of her, I let my guard down and subsequently, he was able to destroy me. I will deal with them when the time is right." Smith opened the door on his right and was about to pass through when the Architect spoke again.  
  
"I guess I should congratulate you, then."  
  
Puzzled, Smith looked at him over his shoulder. "What do you mean?"  
  
"You mean you don't know?" The Architect asked with barely concealed disbelief.  
  
"Know what?" Smith asked, annoyed, before he slammed the door behind him, not wanting nor waiting to hear anything else. Riddles. It's always riddles with that pompous windbag, Smith thought angrily. He's exactly like the Oracle; neither of them would or could give a straight answer, always answering questions with more questions, confusing the whole issue.  
  
But I am not confused anymore. I am no longer a slave to the Matrix. I am finally free, he realized. I can do what I want, when I want and for as long as I want. First, I have to find her, Bronwyn, and thank her for what she has done to me. His lips curled up in a leer as he envisioned himself giving her a taste of what the meaning of pain was so she would never forget.  
  
The Architect sighed. You'll find out soon enough, Smith, he thought. He swiveled his chair around so that he could look at the screens that displayed Bronwyn meeting Smith outside the Heart O' the city Hotel, in a park, and the last time they had met outside a bar.  
  
After a while, he looked at another showing her violation in the interrogation room. You've awakened something in him, some emotion locked deep inside his programming; lying dormant until he met you. I fear that if he ever found out about the child you are carrying, then this obsession he has towards you will be increased tenfold. I can only hope that you can outrun him, at least for now, for sooner or later he will find you. 


	10. Revelations

  
  
Revelations  
  
Author's Note: I apologize for the formatting—I haven't figured out how to do breaks in between the different portions of my story, and I wasn't keen on the idea of having a lot of really, really short chapters either. As always, please let me know what you think!  
  
After Smith had left her, Bronwyn slid down the wall until she was on the ground. She felt hot tears run down her cheeks, but she didn't have the will to wipe them away.  
  
"Are you alright, dear?" a woman's voice asked kindly.  
  
Bronwyn opened her eyes and in the fading light, and she saw an older African-American woman looking down at her. At the woman's side stood a younger Oriental man.  
  
"No, I'm not alright", Bronwyn answered, her voice shaking.  
  
"Seraph", the woman instructed, "please help her up, will you?"  
  
The young man extended his hand down to her. Bronwyn took it and he easily pulled her to her feet.  
  
"Did he hurt you?" he asked.  
  
"No, he didn't have time. He had to leave suddenly. Wait—how did you know?" Bronwyn asked, looking at both of them in turn.  
  
"We saw what happened", The Oracle replied.  
  
"Do you know him?" Bronwyn asked incredulously.  
  
"Yes, we both do. Which reminds me, will you consider having tea with me today? You look like you could use some comfort and my cookies definitely will go a long way in making you feel better," the older woman said, smiling.  
  
Bronwyn opened her mouth to politely refuse, but the Oracle interrupted her.  
  
"I normally wouldn't ask, but I think you should know some things about Smith. Please. It's important."  
  
Bronwyn nodded her acceptance, and the three of them went to the Oracle's apartment. An hour later, after hearing all that the Oracle had to say, Bronwyn angrily rose to her feet from her where she had been sitting at the Oracle's kitchen table.  
  
"I don't believe you. How can I possibly be pregnant? And how could you already know if I am or not? How is that even possible, it only happened last night!" Bronwyn shouted.  
  
"I am telling you the truth, Bronwyn, You must believe me." The Oracle said.  
  
"No!" Bronwyn shouted. "I'm not going to listen to this nonsense anymore. You are as crazy as Smith is and I'm leaving." She stormed out the door, not even bothering to close it.  
  
"Oracle, we must make her believe us somehow. I'll go after her—bring her back....." Seraph began  
  
"No, Seraph. There's nothing more we can do. She will just have to find out on her own." The Oracle sighed. This one is certainly stubborn, she thought. I can only hope she knows what she is doing. But that doesn't mean that she has to be alone in all of this. She went to the phone and dialed the number of the one program who would keep an eye on Bronwyn and her unborn child and make sure that both were safe, for the time being at least.  
  
Bronwyn ran from the Oracle's apartment building until she was exhausted. She stopped at a corner, trying to catch her breath. Those people are complete nut jobs, she thought. How can they and Smith be computer programs? And I don't even want to know what this thing called "The Matrix" is—it sounds like a bad storyline from a cheesy science fiction movie. That old woman is lying. But why would she lie to me like that? I'm not pregnant. I can't have children, let alone be carrying Smith's child—the whole idea is completely insane. She moved her hand over her womb. Can it be true? Can I really be pregnant? If I am, what in God's name am I going to do now?  
  
Desperate to get out of sight, she hailed the nearest cab and went home. She fell on her bed and cried herself into a deep and dreamless sleep.  
  
The next morning, Smith watched from his car as Bronwyn left her apartment building. He put the car in drive and followed her at no great distance; his black sedan blending seamlessly with the Sunday noon-day traffic, yet still keeping a close watch on his prey.  
  
He waited as she went into a small marketplace and came out a short time later with a grocery bag in either hand.  
  
Only when Bronwyn left the relative security of public sidewalks in favor of a short cut through a parking garage, did he leave his car and pursue her on foot.  
  
His attention was so focused on not losing sight of Bronwyn, he was not aware that he himself was being watched. The oldest rule of nature is that sometimes the hunter becomes the hunted.  
  
Shrewd and calculating brown eyes followed Smith's every move; watching and waiting with terrible patience until the former agent would reveal his position and strike.  
  
Smith grabbed Bronwyn's arm, spun her around and knocked her groceries to the ground in one fluid movement.  
  
"Don't look so surprised", he said, "I told you that I would find you, didn't I?"  
  
"What do you want this time, Smith?" Bronwyn said.  
  
He slid his hand to the small of her back and pulled her to him so that her body was crushed against his, so that it would take a superhuman effort on her part to escape from him. He ground his hips into hers for the purpose of making her aware of his very hard and very erect member.  
  
"See what you do to me?" he snarled, his mouth against her ear. "Every time I think about you, I get that reaction. You've plagued me, haunted me, made my life a living hell every minute of every day since the night we met. All I can think about is you. What it feels like to have your body under mine, being inside you and feeling your flesh around me, your cheek against mine, your breath in my ear. I want to feel all of that again. I want you. I need you," he whispered huskily in her ear, his entire universe was concentrated on the sensations she was causing him to feel because of her breasts against his chest, the smell of her hair, and the feel of her cheek next to his. Smith closed his eyes and growled in pleasure. "I'll give you anything, everything. Money. Clothes. Jewelry. A nice place to live—name it and it's yours. I know you like nice things. Let me love you. Let me make love to you."  
  
"You're not capable of love, Smith. You don't have a heart. You are cruel, sick and evil." Bronwyn spat.  
  
"Then show me how to love. Teach me," he demanded, his hands hungrily running over her body, claiming her as his own.  
  
In her minds eye, Bronwyn saw herself in designer clothes, eating in good restaurants, wearing expensive jewelry and sleeping on 600 thread count sheets, as she had once done, many years ago, and a part of herself wanted to, to have all of that back again; to never having to worry about money or being hungry or cold ever again.  
  
But at what price? She asked herself.  
  
In a flash, her vision changed into a nightmare, and she realized with a nauseous jolt what her life would be like if she accepted his offer.  
  
True, she would own everything she ever wanted, but at night she would be locked in a luxurious apartment that would become nothing more that a gilded cage with Smith as her jailor and tormentor.  
  
She would be at the mercy of his desires—trapped night after night in the twin prisons of his arms and bed, unable to ever get free. Her body would be a vessel for his twisted and sick passions; she knew she would experience the horror and trauma of her rape in the interrogation room not only once, but over and over again. With her heart and face set like steel--cold and unresponsive--she gave him the only answer it was in her to give.  
  
"I could never love you, Smith. I hate and despise you more than you could ever know. I would rather be dead than in your arms. The thought of even you touching me, makes my skin crawl and all the money in the world could never wash away the feeling of your touch from my skin. You make me sick!" she hissed, her fury overriding her fear and giving her emotional and physical strength she never knew she possessed as she pushed him away from her.  
  
"Damn it, Bronwyn, I want you. And I will have you, now!" Smith snarled then he kissed her brutally and roughly, wanting to punish her for her refusal; to make her feel pain, to give her a taste of the emotional and physical pain he was feeling as a result from her blatant and callous rejection of his admission of his feelings towards her.  
  
He broke off their kiss, filled one hand with her hair and dragged her towards his nearby car; and she had no choice but to follow him though she balked in protest. He only tightened his grip in her hair, and in response she elicited a moan of pain. He opened the door to the backseat of his car and tried to shove Bronwyn inside, but instead, her head hit the frame of the car door with such force that she sank to her knees, dazed and barely conscious.  
  
"No," she protested feebly, "don't do this to me again, Smith,"  
  
"Shut up and get inside", he ordered, his teeth clenched, taking her by the shoulders and he was about to force her into the car when he felt the cold muzzle of gun touch the nape of his neck and he froze into stillness.  
  
"My car is on the next level. It's the only one there. Go to it. Now." a woman's accented voice commanded Bronwyn. She didn't need telling twice. She staggered to her feet and stumbled up the ramp to the second tier of the garage, using the wall to hold her upright. Whoever this mysterious woman was, Bronwyn knew that she owed her big time, for there was little doubt in her mind what Smith would've done to her had he gotten her in the backseat.  
  
"Persephone, what brings you here?" Smith asked smoothly, turning around to look at her, his own gun drawn.  
  
"Go ahead, Smith. Shoot me if you dare." Persephone taunted him, knowing full well that she was one of the very few programs who could say that to him and still remain alive and unharmed. She knew that even though Smith probably wanted very badly to pull the trigger and end her existence, he did not dare act on it. Her husband, known throughout the Matrix as either "The Frenchman" or more correctly, "The Merovingian" was one of the most powerful, influential and more importantly, dangerous programs ever created, and if Smith harmed Persephone in any way, Smith knew that would pay a very high price for the brief pleasure of doing so.  
  
Smith knew he was powerless to act, and he snarled as he holstered his Desert Eagle inside his jacket.  
  
She smiled at him with a smug and knowing smirk on her lovely features, and she pointed her gun between his eyes for a long moment as if debating with herself whether or not to pull the trigger, before lowering the gun and aiming directly at his groin as if trying to decide where to shoot him. Coming to a decision, she instead fired two shots at Smith's car, flattening the two tires on the passenger side.  
  
"I'm making sure that you're not going anywhere. At least until not for a while", she smirked, then laughed in his face before she turned around, walked up the ramp and was lost to sight.  
  
Bronwyn was sitting on the ground, her head resting on her knees and she looked up when she heard the clicking of Persephone's high heels approach the car.  
  
Persephone knelt beside her. "Are you alright? Did he hurt you?" she asked solicitously.  
  
"I hit my head pretty badly on the door, and I have a hell of a headache, but if it hadn't been for you, he would've..." Bronwyn was unable to continue because of the lump in her throat.  
  
"I know, I know", said Persephone sadly, "but the important thing to do now is get you away from here." She put her arm around Bronwyn's shoulders and helped her to her feet, before opening the passenger door and gently and carefully guiding her inside. Bronwyn groaned in pain.  
  
"Is it the baby?" Persephone asked, alarmed.  
  
"No, I don't think so." Bronwyn shook her head with a rueful smile. "So you know about my baby too?"  
  
"A lot of people do."  
  
"Bad news travels fast, I guess," said Bronwyn glumly.  
  
Persephone started the car and slowly drove off. Unseen by either woman from his vantage point on the stairs between the first and second parking level, Smith reflected on the conversation he had just overheard. Could it be, he thought. Is Bronwyn pregnant with my child? Just to be certain, Smith performed a self-diagnostic on his auditory receptors and its accompanying processing chip and was not surprised to find that everything was in perfect working order. He had heard correctly, after all. He also accessed his memory file and remembered that his human Host at the time of his and Bronwyn's copulation had been female.  
  
I'm going to be a father; he thought and chuckled to himself for a moment until the realization of what that meant dawned on him. A half-human, half-program hybrid. What would that mean for the Matrix, but more importantly, what will that mean for me? Smith did a quick mental calculation. The baby would be born in June.  
  
No one needs to know that I know about the pregnancy already. I have a lot of time to think and plan what I need and have to do, before I make my next move.  
  
He walked outside, leaving the standard agent issue Agency car where it was. I don't need anything from them anymore. I'm free from those chains forever, and I'm going to be a father. 


	11. Flight

Flight

Author's Note: Just so you know, there's not too much action in this chapter, mostly dialog. Also, I thought I would set the story in San Francisco, since that's where the big freeway chase took place in Reloaded.

Anyway, a super BIG "thank you" to Cecilia, who saved me from making a huge error in the plot that would've spoiled the whole story--Thanks, girlfriend, I owe ya!!

Disclaimer: As always, I don't own the Matrix or the characters from the movies, blah blah blah.

After Persephone drove out of the parking garage, she dialed a number on her cell phone.

"It's me. Yes, I found her in time, she's okay for now." She paused for a moment as she listened to what the caller was saying, before she continued.

"I think the safest place for Bronwyn would be at my place. If you take the rear entrance, we should be able to meet without my husband knowing. I'll see you there soon," she said before hanging up. Persephone looked over at Bronwyn. "I apologize for that, but you'll be safe if you come with me. I'm meeting some people at my chateau very soon."

Bronwyn nodded in agreement. "How did you find me? And how did you know Smith would be there as well?" she asked.

Persephone hesitated before replying. "I got a call from The Oracle and she told me where I could find you and head Smith off before he got to you. I almost didn't make it in time."

"So you know the Oracle too?"

"Everyone knows the Oracle," Persephone said, as if it was common knowledge. "I've learned that when she gets a vision, it's always best to listen to listen to what she has to say. I don't think she's ever been wrong. At least with me, she hasn't been."

Bronwyn didn't say anything. Her mind and body were still trying to deal with what had almost happened in the garage with Smith, and she shivered.

Persephone saw the other woman's reaction out of the corner of her eye. "Don't worry; we'll figure out something. With any luck, you'll be free of Smith soon enough."

How could she be so sure, Bronwyn wondered. Part of her wanted desperately to believe Persephone, but she couldn't afford to hope for anything, just yet. It was too soon, and things could still go wrong.

The car pulled into the underground parking lot at "La Verite" the up-scale and very popular restaurant that she co-owned with her husband, The Merovingian. It wasn't long before Bronwyn was lying in a luxurious bed with blankets around her to keep her warm. Persephone answered the knock on the bedroom door and Bronwyn saw the Oracle and her companion Seraph enter the room before Persephone closed and locked the door.

Without preamble, the Oracle said, "Bronwyn, after what occurred this afternoon, I think you'll agree that the best and safest thing for you to do right now would be to leave this city. Do you have somewhere you can go or someone who can help you?"

Bronwyn thought for a long moment. "I think so. I have a friend who owes me a big favor and who might be able to help. Is there a phone I can use?" she asked Persephone.

"Yes, of course," she replied and handed Bronwyn the phone that had been next to the bed.

"It's an old phone number, but I think I can still get through to Mickey," said Bronwyn as she dialed a number.

"Mickey? It's me."

"Ronnie? What happened to you, babe? It's like you disappeared off the face of the map," said a deep male voice on the other end of the line.

"Listen Mickey, please. I need a favor. A big one."

"Hmm. Well, I do owe you for coming through for me that time. I would've done some serious jail time if hadn't been for you, stepping in and taking care of the cops the way you did. What do you need?"

"Hey, who knows how to handle the police better than a cop's daughter, right? Seriously though, Mickey, I need to get out of San Francisco as soon as possible and I need a safe place to stay afterward."

"Legal trouble?" Mickey asked.

"No, no trouble with the police this time. A federal agent who is a complete psycho, actually."

"Somebody bothering you?" he asked, concerned.

"Something like that, Mickey. I'll tell you everything when I see you."

"OK, I can be up there in a few hours. Where should I meet you?"

"So you'll be coming?"

"Of course," he chuckled, "anything for my favorite girl."

Bronwyn smiled to herself at his compliment. Still the same old Mickey, she thought. "What is the address of this place?" she asked Persephone. She gave her the address and Bronwyn related it to him.

"The parking garage would be the best place to meet. There's hardly anyone there at this time of day." Persephone said.

"Yeah, I got it," said Mickey. "I'll be there in about 4 hours. Bye, babe."

"Bye," said Bronwyn, hanging up the phone.

"Where will you be going?" asked Seraph.

Bronwyn hesitated to reply. "Maybe the less you know the safer you will be, from Smith anyway."

"She's right" said Persephone, decisively. "But can you trust these people? And who are they?"

"Mickey is the chapter president of "The Diablos," one of the biggest biker gangs in Southern California. If anyone can help me, they can. As well, they can keep me safe from Smith."

She noticed their dubious looks at her statement. "Let me put it this way: when two rival bike chapters are at war with one another, the Mafia, not the police, tries to negotiate a truce between them and keep the peace. No sane person would want to mess with them, believe me."

Persephone reached into her purse and thrust a large roll of banknotes into Bronwyn's hand. "Take this. In case you need it."

"But I can't repay you," Bronwyn said, her eyes shimmering with gratitude and unshed tears.

"You can repay me by raising this child with a good, kind man and being happy in your new life. If you need more, you know where I am," Persephone said with a smile.

"What about your husband? Won't he know about this? About what you've done?"

Persephone laughed. "We have more money that we could ever spend. He won't miss it, trust me."

"What if Smith asks him where Bronwyn has gone?" the Oracle asked.

"I will say to him beforehand that if he gives Smith any information, I will divorce him and take him for everything he has. He loves money more than anything. He will not tell Smith where you are, I promise." She checked her watch. "You should get ready, I think."

"But what about my apartment and all my things?" asked Bronwyn.

"Don't worry about that," the Oracle said, "we'll take care of everything."

"You've all been so kind to me. I can't possibly thank you enough."

"We understand completely, Bronwyn," said the Oracle, "Your life and the life of your baby is at stake. You have to leave. Everyone here knows that Smith is relentless. Should he find out about the baby, he will never give up looking for you."

"You should get something to eat before you go," said Persephone. "Let's go to the restaurant. I'll get the kitchen to make us all something to eat. I don't know about anyone else, but I could really use something to drink," she stated, opening the bedroom door and leading the way.

When it was time for Bronwyn to leave, Persephone accompanied Bronwyn to the garage. Soon afterwards, a sleek, blue Mercedes sedan drove up to where the two women stood. The driver's door opened and the driver got out. He was of medium height; an attractive, strongly built man dressed in a polo shirt and expensive designer trousers. For her part, Persephone liked what she saw.

"Mickey, you haven't gone legit, have you? Where's your bike?" said Bronwyn with a wide smile.

"Legit? Me? Never! I still have the bike, though, I just wanted to pick you up in style," Mickey answered, with a grin. He went over to Bronwyn and hugged her. "Hey, girl, good to see you again." He noticed Persephone's glance. "What? Were you expecting me to wear black leather and be covered in tattoos?"

She blushed and nodded. "Something like that. I'm sorry."

He laughed, and it was a pleasant sound to her ears. "Don't be. Some of us do dress that way, but not me. I'm a little too old to be wearing leather pants at my age. Besides, I'm the president of these bunch of clowns. Someone has to show those bozos how to dress."

Grinning, Bronwyn playfully punched him in the arm and it was clear to Persephone that Bronwyn was in good hands with this man. Her intuition about him was that he cared a great deal for her petite friend, and that he would take care of her and keep her safe.

The passenger in the car got out and was hugged by Bronwyn in turn. He was bigger than Mickey and larger than any man Persephone had ever seen. He was well over six feet tall, with a belly that extended over the waist of his jeans. Some people might see him as fat, but Bronwyn knew better. He was 275 pounds of good, solid muscle, but a gentle giant to his closest friends one of which he considered Bronwyn to be.

"Good to see you, Bear," Bronwyn said, with a smile.

"Back at ya, babe."

"Would you gentlemen like something to eat? Or drink, perhaps?" asked Persephone, looking at each of the men, her gaze lingering the longest on Mickey.

"No thanks, ma'am" he said, putting his arm around Bronwyn's shoulders and winked at her. "I think we should we get this little lady back to where she belongs, safe and sound, the quicker the better. Let's go, Ronnie. He moved his hand to the small of her back and guided her into the backseat of the car, closing the door after her.

Bronwyn waved goodbye to Persephone. The car left the garage, and as it disappeared from sight, Persephone couldn't say how she knew, but she had the feeling that she would never see Bronwyn alive again. She turned around and sadly got in the elevator and took it back upstairs to where the Oracle and Seraph were waiting for her.

In the car, Bronwyn related everything that had happened between herself and Smith.

"So you think this Smith guy will hurt you and the baby?" asked Mickey.

"If he knew about it, he might. He's insane and obsessed. And dangerous. Very dangerous." Bronwyn stressed the word "dangerous" so that they would get the point.

"Jesus, Ronnie, if this guy is so weird, why did you sleep with him?"

"He didn't give me a choice in the matter, Bear. Like I already told you, he raped me, and he would've done it again today if that woman you just saw me with hadn't helped me escape from him". That son of a bitch, she thought.

"He won't find you, Ronnie. And if he does, he'll have to go through us first," said Mickey.

"All of us. Starting with me," promised Bear.

"Don't underestimate this man, guys. He is a real bad-ass motherfucker. You don't want to mess with him, believe me."

"What does he look like?" asked Mickey.

"About 6'2," blue eyes, black suit, black tie with a silver tie clip. Reddish brown hair. Always carries a fully loaded Desert Eagle. Slender build, around 180 pounds, early to mid forties, I guess." She sighed. "I just want to be able to raise my baby in peace, as far as possible from its father. In order to get away from him today, I had to leave everything I own behind, except what I've got on."

She fingered the Egyptian silk scarf she still had around her neck and sighed. All of my nicer clothes and jewelry I had to leave behind. Crap, she cursed. If I could've at least been able to take my jewelry, I would have been able to get some money for it. Damn you Smith, she thought, haven't you screwed up my life enough? Well, at least I'm free of you now. Good riddance.

"Don't worry, babe," said Mickey, "we'll take care of you. Stretch out in the backseat and try to get some sleep if you can."

It didn't take long for her to fall asleep.

Bear looked at her sleeping form for a long time. When he spoke, Mickey could hear the concern for her in his voice.

"Poor little thing. On the run from some fucking psycho Fed, no less. Jeez."

"Tell all the members about this guy, the prospects too. Everybody, and I mean everybody, has to keep an eye out for him. In case he comes looking for her, we gotta know who he is." (A/N: "prospects" refers to potential members of the chapter who are earmarked to receive full membership in due course.)

"She shouldn't have left us, Mickey."

"She had good reason, remember? Anyway, she's back where she belongs. Don't worry, Bear, if anyone can keep her safe, it's us. Wake her up, will ya, we're almost home."


	12. After all, I'm not French for nothing

After All, I'm Not French for Nothing

Disclaimer: I don't own the Matrix or anyone in it, except the ones I've created for this story.

Persephone glanced sidelong at her husband sitting next to her and he gave her a fleeting wink.

"Don't worry, I won't tell him anything," he said.

"You had better not, my love, or you know what will happen."

The smile disappeared from the Merovingian's face. Her threat of taking everything he had should he give the former agent any information, was more than enough incentive to keep him silent.

They watched as Smith made his way towards where they sat. The Merovingian indicated that he should seat himself and he did so, before leaning back in a relaxed manner in his chair. Persephone regarded him with a frosty glare. She had never liked Smith; he seemed to her cold and robotic in his movements and even in his manner of speaking. Normally, Persephone did not care about humans and what happened to them, but now that she had met Bronwyn and knew what she was like, Persephone loathed Smith for what he had done to her.

"You know why I am here?" he asked.

"Of course. You want information. As does everyone who comes to see me."

"I am looking for Bronwyn Delaney."

"And who is this woman? What is she to you?" The Merovingian already knew all the answers, but he took a kind of perverse pleasure in crossing Smith any chance he could.

"Refresh my memory, she is the woman you impregnated by rape is she not, Smith?" Persephone asked mildly, raising her voice intentionally so that a few of the nearby restaurant patrons could not help but overhear. Smith ground his teeth in irritation as he heard whisperings like the hissing of angry snakes behind his back.

"You already know who she is, now I want to know where she went," Smith growled impatiently. His temper had been elevated far beyond normal, and his inability to discover Bronwyn's whereabouts made it very difficult to keep his anger in check, and Persephone's deliberate chidings wasn't helping matters either.

It had almost four months since Bronwyn's complete disappearance from San Francisco and for all his usual sources of information, his own resourcefulness and tenacity, had not been able to shed the slightest clue as to where she had gone.

Smith remembered with anger and surprise the day—about a week after the incident in the garage—when in sheer frustration at not seeing her anywhere in the city; he had kicked in the door to her apartment only to find it completely empty. He stormed to the office of her landlord and yanked open the door, nearly ripping it off its hinges in his rage.

"Where is she? Where did she go?" Smith hissed through his teeth, grabbing the man by his shirt and slammed him into the wall after each word, to emphasize the point that he intended to get answers one way or another.

"I don't know", the weasely little man grunted in pain with each blow. "Honest, I don't. One day she was here, and the next thing I know, all her stuff was gone."

"Who took it?"

"I didn't see them I swear, man."

Smith furiously released the man and he slumped to the floor. "If you find out anything, you will tell me, is that clear?" Smith growled, delivering several well-placed kicks to the landlord's cowering, huddled form before leaving the man's office.

He began his search, and after four months, Smith realized the distasteful truth that he would have to seek out the Frenchman in order to obtain the information he wanted.

"I am sorry Smith, but I cannot help you."

"If it's a question of money, I'll pay double the usual amount. Triple, if you like."

"My friend, you could make it any amount you wish, but I really have no idea where she is." The Merovingian replied smoothly, lying came to him as easily as breathing did to others.

Smith chanced to look at Persephone and he knew by the smug and self-satisfying expression on her face that she had the information he had been searching for. She met his glance and gave Smith a smile he would have paid any price gladly just for the pleasure of slapping it off of her face.

She knows, he thought, narrowing his eyes from behind his sunglasses as he looked at her. She knows exactly where Bronwyn and my baby are. And there's not a damn thing I can do to make her tell me. Look at you, Smith thought to himself as he watched Persephone. Sitting there, putting on airs you have no right to claim, and thinking you are so superior to everyone else. But I know what you really are and where you come from. If the Merovingian had any sense at all, he would throw you back into that brothel where he found you.

"Yes," she said, "I do know where they both are and you can be assured, former "Agent" Smith, that you will never find out their location. That is of course, if Bronwyn hasn't terminated the pregnancy yet."

Smith felt a shiver of fear race through his body and he sat up in his chair. "Terminate the pregnancy? You mean, have an abortion?" he asked, his voice suddenly hoarse.

"That's exactly what I mean, Smith." Persephone snapped, "Just like any woman who was carrying any child of yours should do." Oh no, she thought, closing her eyes in horror. He knows about the baby and I'm the one who just told him. But why is he not surprised? Could it be that he already knows?

"But she can't do that! She can't kill my child," he protested.

"She can. And she will." Persephone stated decisively.

"How do you know that?" Smith asked defiantly, his words belying the fact that for the first time in his existence, he was fearful. Has Bronwyn already done it? Has she already killed my child, he wondered. I have to find her and stop her before it's too late. I won't let her kill that part of me that is growing within her. I won't.

"It is her body and her choice. NOT yours. And because of what you did to her, she became pregnant. I hope that she gets rid of it and throws it in the trash, which is where any child that is yours belongs," Persephone said scornfully, thoroughly enjoying seeing the stricken look on Smith's face.

"Serves you right," she said triumphantly, "for raping a helpless, unarmed woman who is easily half your size. She didn't have any chance at all of defending herself against you, with all of your agent strength, did she, you son of a bitch."

"Persephone, please", the Merovingian interjected, placing his hand over hers and squeezing it gently. "There's no need to torment the poor man any further."

She snatched her hand out of his grasp and looked daggers at her husband. "Poor man?" she said, her voice rising in anger, "what about Bronwyn? The poor woman he raped? What about her? Or doesn't she matter because she is just a human?"

With a supreme effort, she managed to get herself back in control. "You will excuse me, I'm sure" she said mockingly, getting out of her chair and proceeded to leave the table. The Merovingian rose to his feet and arched an eyebrow at Smith, indicating that he expected the former agent to follow his example.

Grudgingly, Smith followed suit. He knew that if he ever needed to get information from the Frenchman again in the future, he would have to placate him with this gesture, trifling and meaningless though it was.

In a foul mood, Smith left shortly afterwards. With Persephone now absent, he had tried to solicit the Merovingian to give him the information Smith was certain he knew as well as his wife, but with no success.

The elevator opened its doors to the garage level and Smith was surprised to see Persephone leaning against his car.

"Nice car. But you're still not one for color, are you?" she said, running her hand over the smooth and highly polished surface of the hood. "New? Although I always did prefer Jaguars. I've found that they have more style than an Audi. Still, not a bad choice. It's certainly better than the standard issue cars they give to agents. What are they now, anyway? General Motors? Please." She waved her hand dismissively.

"Get off my car," he ordered.

"Oh, come on now, Smith. There's no need to take that tone with me," she purred, reaching out and pulling him by the lapels of his jacket until he was where she wanted him to be. She straightened them slowly and deliberately. "I know you like to look your best," she said. "You always did. And still do, I see." With a sudden movement, she took his handgun from its holster and examined it leisurely.

"I've always wondered," she said, "why is it that all you agent feel the need to carry such big weapons? Is this gun," she stroked the barrel of the Desert Eagle idly, "some kind of penis metaphor?" She leered at Smith before handing the pistol back to him. "I guess I'll never know," she said, sighing dramatically.

"What do you want, Persephone?" he asked brusquely.

"Just this," she murmured, sliding her hand up until it was around his neck and she drew his head down and kissed him. He didn't respond at first, but her skill in the arts of intimacy was legend throughout the Matrix and against his will, his body and maleness did the thinking for him.

Persephone almost laughed when she felt his arms wind around her. I've haven't forgotten a thing, she thought proudly. I can still get a man to do what I want. After all, I'm not French for nothing.

She broke off their kiss and trailed her hand down his tie, and then downwards until she reached the buttons of his jacket, which she undid, each in their turn. She slid her hands around his waist and held him closer.

"Isn't that better," she asked languorously and he couldn't help but agree. He could feel her ample breasts against his chest and his hands moved up her body until he felt their heavy softness in his palms.

"Isn't this so much better than using force?" she asked. "Imagine what it would have felt like if Bronwyn had been willing and not forced into intimacy. If she had chosen to give herself to you, not taken by violence? You are so naive," she whispered in his ear. "And such a stupid man. You think yourself so experienced with regards to how women should be treated, but you know nothing."

Persephone drew his head down to hers again, simulating an intensity of passion that she was far from feeling. She couldn't recall all the times she had faked being aroused by what men did to her, but she had learned that all men liked to hear audible expressions of hunger and desire from the women they were intimate with.

Smith kissed her hungrily and fondled her breasts with his hands while she made the appropriate sounds of a woman who was caught in the throes of lust by what her lover was doing to her. She slid her hands underneath his jacket, raking her sharp nails across his back through his shirt, intensifying the feeling of excitement in Smith and it was obvious to her how aroused he had become, and she smiled to herself in exultation.

"You want me, don't you, Smith? No man could ever resist me, especially not a cold, emotionless bastard like you", she said triumphantly, reaching down to his groin. She locked her eyes with his, as if daring him to deny the level of passion and lust she had caused him to feel. He was powerless to disagree and they both knew it.

"You little tease," he snarled as he shoved her away. "I should've known you'd be up to your usual tricks."

Persephone groaned in mock disappointment. "You should've known better, Smith, you've known me long enough. Don't pretend to be surprised by my actions now. But I stand by what I said. Just imagine to yourself how much more pleasurable it would have been if she had participated, willingly and freely. Did she fight back or did she just lie there?" she asked abruptly.

"She didn't fight back." He replied.

"So she just lay there?"

He nodded. "What has that got to do with anything?" he asked angrily.

"I imagine that taking her was like, oh, how can I say this? Like fucking a dead body, yes?"

"Yes."

"Tell me Smith, is there a difference between this?" she said, and put her lips on his; a pretence of a kiss. She was present and that was all. "Or this?" she said, kissing him completely this time, drawing out his lower lip, releasing it only to guide her tongue between his teeth, teasing his tongue with her own.

Smith felt a surge of something flash through his body, igniting his pulse and inflaming his senses until Persephone pulled away from him.

"I get your point", he said.

"Good," she said and walked to the elevator without a glance backward. Once the doors closed, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand in a completely undignified and unladylike way. Kissing Smith is like kissing a dead fish she thought, disgusted. She shuddered when she thought of how Bronwyn must have felt having Smith even touch her, let alone what having him inside her must have felt like. Terrible imagery of that union raced through Persephone's mind, overwhelming it. Nauseated, she fell to her knees in the elevator car and vomited in revulsion and horror.


	13. Protector of a Woman

Protector of a Woman

Disclaimer: I don't own the Matrix, etc, etc.

Author's Note: A BIG, BIG thank you to Cecilia for her patience, encouragement and hand-holding when I needed it while writing this chapter—Thanks, dudette!

It had been four months since Bronwyn had fled San Francisco. True to his word, Mickey and his associates had taken good care of her; she now lived in a nice, clean apartment and she was safe. However, it had taken her a long time before she felt secure enough to even walk down the street without constantly checking over her shoulder to see if Smith was lurking nearby, ready to accost her again.

What she was unable to conquer so easily were the nightmares. At first they were sporadic, but as the pregnancy advanced, so did their frequency. Now, almost on a nightly basis, she woke up with a scream, her heart pounding, her face wet with tears and her body trembling in fear and horror. She remembered very little of what she had dreamt about, but she knew they shared one thing in common: Smith.

He was in each of her dreams in one form or another; but with one central theme threaded through them all—because of his presence and actions in her dreams, she suffered endless excruciating pain, heartbreak and the loss of her child, while Smith coldheartedly and cruelly laughed at her, as he took sadistic pleasure in taking what mattered the most to her, away forever. Sometimes he took her child, other times he took someone else, but who that man was or even what he looked like, she was never able to remember. All she knew was that she loved that man--deeply and passionately--and Smith knew it.

Bronwyn dreaded the nighttime and the idea of falling asleep, for she knew how the dream and the night would always end—with her weeping in anguish as if her heart would break, and the sheets drenched in sweat.

Her baby, on the other hand, was thriving, and now months later, Bronwyn's expectant state was quite obvious. I look more pregnant than four months—it's more like six, she thought, a little worried as she looked at her reflection again in the mirror. Could I be expecting more than one baby?

However, during her last visit, her obstetrician, Dr. Yade, had soothed all of her anxieties and assured her that the pregnancy was progressing quite normally and that her child was perfectly healthy and as far as she could tell, Bronwyn was carrying one child, not two.

Almost from the beginning of the pregnancy, she had made the choice of having her baby, against Mickey's advice. Despite the fact that her child had been conceived from an act of violence and that she hated and feared its father beyond all description, Bronwyn couldn't bring herself to terminate the life of a completely innocent being.

The phone rang unexpectedly, jolting her out of her reverie.

"Hi, Mickey. What's up?"

"Ronnie, you'd better come down to the club. It's important."

"What's going on?" she asked.

"Just get here soon, okay?" he snapped at her, before hanging up.

Shortly afterwards, she hurried to the club that Mickey owned and went directly to his office. Mickey was behind his desk as usual, but Bronwyn knew something serious was happening because she noticed that not only was Mickey in the room, but so were two of the bouncers, and obvious was the fact that all of them looked like a brawl had recently taken place.

"What's been happening here?" she asked, looking at each of them in turn, her eyes drawn to the various injuries all of them were now sporting--bruised, swollen knuckles, bloody noses and split lips seemed to be the least of them.

Bronwyn sighed in exasperation when none of them appeared willing to answer her question. She turned to Mickey to demand an explanation and saw that the gun he usually kept in a drawer was in front of him on the desktop. Alongside it was an unfamiliar revolver she had never seen before and judging by the length of its barrel alone, it made the one Mickey owned look like a water pistol.

Bronwyn was about to ask him about it when he jerked his chin toward the man sitting in front of him. "He came into the club about half an hour ago asking for you. He wouldn't tell us who he was or why he wanted to talk with you. We tried to, um, convince him to leave, but......." Mickey broke off, angry and embarrassed that the man in the black suit sitting in front of him had managed to beat up not only himself, but Bear and Eddie as well.

And on top of that, there wasn't so much as a hair or thread out of place on the man's entire person; for his black suit was still as immaculate as when he first arrived. Whoever this guy is, Mickey thought, he managed to kick all three of our butts in less than fifteen minutes, unarmed, single-handed, and without even breaking a sweat. I could certainly put a man like this to good use in my organization. I'm glad he's going to look after Ronnie, even at the price he quoted me before he agreed to do so. All the same, I will keep my eye on him.

"He says he knows you. Is it him? Is that Smith?" Mickey said, gruffly.

She looked at the man Mickey had indicated and shook her head. "That's not Smith. I can't remember what this guy's name is, but he used to work with him. Who are you?" she asked.

"Age--Jones. Just Jones," he replied.

"Why are you here? And how the hell did you find me?" Bronwyn demanded angrily. If he can find me so easily, can Smith be far behind, she wondered, absently stroking with her hand the area just below her navel where her unborn child slumbered. It was an unconscious and instinctive gesture she had caught herself doing more and more often without fully realizing she was doing it.

"I saw you earlier this week; I followed you and I watched you come in here a couple of times."

At the end of Jones' statement, Mickey slid the former agent's Desert Eagle across the table to Bear who picked it up. He put the barrel against Jones' temple before Mickey picked up his own gun and aimed it directly at Jones who stared back at him without expression. Jones knew that he could easily dodge the bullets of one gun, but two were another matter.

"Start talking. Now." Mickey ordered.

"You are in danger, Miss. Delaney. I can help you. In fact, I may be the only man here who can do so." A look of contempt and scorn passed across his face as his eyes swept over the three men who had tried, albeit unsuccessfully, to stop him from entering the club in the first place.

"Help me? How can you possibly help me?" Bronwyn demanded.

"You are on the run from Smith. He's been looking everywhere for you and," Jones' eyes travelled to her swelling waistline, "the baby."

"How do you know that?" Mickey snarled.

Jones directed his reply to Bronwyn. "When you disappeared without a trace, he became obsessed. He's been hunting for you relentlessly since then. Sooner or later, he will find you; you must realize that. He won't stop looking for you, especially now that he knows about the baby."

She nodded. It was pointless to ask how Smith had found out about the baby, she thought. Sooner or later everyone would know—I'm only going to get bigger. "But how can you help me?"

"I can be of help to you because, like Smith, I was an agent. We were trained together. I know exactly how he thinks and what he will do. I can protect her from him," Jones stated with certainty, looking at Mickey, in particular. "You can't be with her all the time, watching her every minute. But I can. And I will."

"He's right," Bronwyn said, glancing at Mickey who looked Jones right in the eye to drive his point home, before lowering the gun.

"You'd better make sure nothing happens to her or you will answer to me. Understand? You walk her home now and come right back, got it? We've got business to discuss." Grudgingly, Mickey returned the Desert Eagle to its rightful owner.

Jones holstered his weapon, nodded, and followed Bronwyn out of the club. Walking home with Jones at her side, Bronwyn asked, "what's in it for you? Why are you doing this?"

The former agent shrugged. "I have no loyalty to Smith if that's what you mean."

"You didn't answer my question. Why are you doing this?"

"After my "discussion" with your friends, your friend Mickey realized that he couldn't protect you as well as I could. I told him what my price was and he accepted."

He's nothing more than an over-dressed mercenary, a hired gun, she thought disgustedly. "This is where I live. Bye." Without another word, she turned and entered her building, leaving Jones standing alone on the sidewalk.

For the sake of money, a lot of money, I've gone from being one of the most feared agents of the Matrix to a protector of a woman, a human. How low the mighty have fallen, Jones thought to himself contemptuously. He watched until Bronwyn was out of sight and walked back to the club.


	14. I Will Find You

I Will Find You

Disclaimer: I don't the Matrix. I also don't own the movie that Bronwyn and Jones see together—you get a cookie if you can guess what it is.

Summary: It's been 3 weeks since Jones agreed to look after Bronwyn and neither is finding their close contact easy to bear. (I know, I know, I can't write decent summaries—but with over 41 reviews for this story, I must be doing something right!)

Bronwyn threw the TV guide on the floor in irritation. It was that time of year again and there was not a damn thing on tonight except early Thanksgiving and Christmas specials. She looked over to the table and noticed the newspaper that had arrived earlier in the day.

So what if what's on TV sucks, she thought. There's always a movie. There's got to be something playing somewhere that I want to see. Opening the paper to the "Entertainment" section, she perused the movie listings. She read with interest the fact that the local art house downtown was showing a movie from a few years back. Even thought she owned a DVD copy of it, she wanted to see it again on the big screen. The start time was in forty-five minutes but she knew if she hurried, she knew she could make the early showing. And maybe this time I can lose that shadow who insists on following me everywhere.

She left her apartment and was almost out of her building when she heard the familiar sound of those leather shoes as its owner strode purposefully after her.

It had been Mickey's idea that Jones should take an apartment in Bronwyn's building so that he could always be close to her should the need arise. It had been taxing on both of them for different reasons. To Bronwyn, she didn't like the idea of being followed all the time, but she understood the reason for it. For Jones, being constantly close to and watching over a woman was a new, if frustrating, learning experience to say the least.

It took time and patience on both their parts, but after nearly three weeks of this arrangement, they were getting used to being in each other's company.

She whirled around and clicked her tongue chidingly. "You're slipping, Jones. I almost made it out the door this time."

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"To the movies. You want to come too? Fine." she said, knowing he was going to follow her anyway.

"You might not like it, though. There's no car chases, explosions, space battles with ray guns or gunfights at the OK Corral in it. There is one naked woman in the movie, but she's having a portrait done of herself, that will have to be your fill of T&A." Besides, she thought, if I am really lucky, he might even change his mind about following me to the movies again, once he realizes this is a love story, not an action film.

He sat beside her as he always did when they went to the movies. Looking around, he noticed he was not the only man who was here at this movie sitting beside a woman, but he was the only one whose arm was either not around the shoulders of his companion or resting on the back of her seat.

Am I expected to do that as well, he thought. And what would she do if I did? He puzzled over the matter until the lights dimmed and grainy sepia-tinted images of a departing ocean liner followed by the rolling waves of a moonlit ocean accompanied by a plaintive and haunting melody interrupted his thoughts.

"What's wrong?" Jones asked, as he and Bronwyn left the theatre over three hours later.

She sniffled. "I'm crying because the movie was sad, that's why."

"But you've seen this movie before. And it is a historical fact that the ship sank after striking that iceberg. After sustaining that much structural damage, it was impossible for the ship to remain afloat for any amount of time. So why were you crying?"

"Jesus, Jones, didn't you hear all those other people weeping in the theatre? We were crying because so many people had to die, needlessly. Don't you have a heart? Of course not," she snapped, "what could I have possibly been thinking? You worked for Smith, after all. He probably taught you everything he knew about how to be a cold, emotionless bastard. I'm sure he'd be proud of you now." Her voice dripped with sarcasm. She turned on her heel and quickened her step.

Unfortunately, for a petite and very pregnant woman, getting away from a man, any man, (not to mention one as large and as fast as Jones was), was far easier said than done. She found to her annoyance that he caught up with her all too quickly.

"Get away from me!" she hissed at him.

"No." he said, walking beside her.

"Leave me alone."

"No."

"Why won't you leave me alone and just go away? I didn't ask you to come along with me tonight and I'm sure you really did not want to see that movie. Wouldn't you rather have stayed home and cleaned your gun instead?" Bronwyn said, sarcastically.

"My gun didn't need cleaning."

"Reloading it then."

"It didn't need reloading."

"I don't know what you like to do for fun—watch professional wrestling? Download porn from the Internet? How the hell should I know?"

"I don't watch television and I haven't downloaded anything from the Internet, porn or otherwise."

She threw up her hands in exasperation. "I give up. Trying to have an argument with you is like trying to have an argument with Mr. Spock, for Christ's sake."

"You're wrong, Miss. Delaney."

"About what?" Bronwyn demanded, turning to look at him.

"I never worked _for _Smith, I only worked _with_ him."

What a completely infuriating man, she thought angrily. "I don't care! Jones, why don't you just go fu—"

Bronwyn had been about to tell him to perform a sexual act on himself when she felt the baby inside her move for the first time. She gasped in shock before she doubled over and grabbed at Jones' sleeve to keep herself from falling. Without a word, he picked her up in his arms and carried her the remaining distance to her apartment. He carried her to her bedroom where he laid her slowly and cautiously on the bed.

He had never had an occasion or a reason to treat a woman with tenderness before in the past; Jones was unsure how to be gentle—he simply didn't know how. But he knew he had to learn, and quickly, because it was in his best interest to do so; his existence depended on it, for there was no doubt in his mind that her friend Mickey would not hesitate to act on his threat if any harm came to Bronwyn while she was in his care.

For the first time, he, Jones, an agent, was the guardian and protector of a woman, a human. Not only that, she was carrying the child of the most dangerous agent the Matrix had ever produced as well. Jones knew that Bronwyn would need all the safety and security he could give her. And what would Smith do to her once he found her was not pleasant to think about.

"What happened? Are you alright? Did I hurt you?" Jones asked awkwardly, uncomfortably shifting his weight from one foot to another. Bronwyn shifted her position in bed a little and indicated that he should sit down beside her. Jones paused uncertainly for a moment before sitting on the edge of the bed.

"I'm fine. The baby moved for the first time and it just took me by surprise, that's all. And no, you didn't hurt me. You were very gentle, as a matter of fact. Thanks for asking, though," she replied. "Do you mind?" she asked, indicating that she wanted to remove his sunglasses. He nodded uncertainly, knowing that he couldn't refuse her request, and he remained completely motionless while Bronwyn removed them.

"You have nicer eyes than Smith does," Bronwyn stated critically, tilting her head to one side and looking closely at his face.

He looked at her in surprise. "Our eyes are the same shade of blue."

She shook her head decisively. "Smith's eyes are cold, like they were chipped from ice or steel, but yours are warm. I like them."

"Thank you, Miss. Delaney," Jones said. He had never received a compliment before and simply didn't know what else to say.

"Stop calling me that," she said.

"What?"

"Please, just call me Bronwyn. And what should I call you? Mr. Jones?" she asked, trying not to smile.

"Jones. Just Jones. Like the way you've been doing."

"All right, Jones. You can leave now, only please turn out the light before you go; I want to go to bed. I'll scream if I want anything."

He nodded and left, turning out the light.

He is so straight-laced and formal, Bronwyn thought, as she changed her clothes for bed. That is such an unexpected quality in a man like this, even if he is insufferable and has absolutely no sense of humor. I wonder if his face would crack if he ever smiled. She laughed to herself at the thought and pressed her hand hard against her belly as she felt sudden movement again inside her. This time, it was much sharper, stronger and more intense than the first. Yes, I know you're in there little one, you don't have to jump around like that, she mentally chided the life within her, gently poking her abdomen playfully, before falling asleep.

Three hundred miles away, Smith slammed on the brakes of his car when the unexpected and unfamiliar feeling hit him. He had never felt anything like it, and he couldn't say how, but he knew exactly what it was. It was an emotional, neural impulse from his child as it moved inside Bronwyn for the first time.

She didn't get rid of it after all, he thought exultantly. The Merovingian's whore of a wife lied to me. My child is still alive.

When the child moved again, Smith felt that the sensation was a little stronger this time, but not by much. The fetus is yet too small and too weak to communicate anything to me other than it is able to move now. However, I know that the feelings and signals it sends to me will only get stronger in time. It wants me, it needs me and I will find you. And when I do, I'll make it's mother pay for the hell she's put me through.

Perhaps after all this time, she might even begin to feel that she is safe from me; that she actually succeeded in running to a place where I couldn't find her. But little does she know that our child will tell me exactly where she is and what she is doing. Or with whom, for that matter. For although Smith could not be absolutely certain, he had the feeling that Bronwyn was not alone.

It wasn't really all that important, he argued. After all, whoever he was, he was mortal and could die.


	15. Nothing More than a Battery

Nothing More Than a Battery

Summary: With the right man and the right circumstances, a woman can overcome the aftermath of even the worst nightmare and learn to dream again....

Author's Note: Gruesome images and gory descriptions in this chapter. It is only a nightmare, but depicts the very worst that Smith is capable of—not for the faint of heart and should re-emphasize the fact that this is NOT a "Mary-Sue" story. If this bothers you even the least bit, you'll probably not want to read this anyway. BTW, the italics are intentional......hope it's not too hard to read.

Fretfully, Bronwyn turned over on her side and the nightmare that had plagued her for months began yet again.....

_The child was now stirring ceaselessly within her. If I didn't know better, I'd swear he or she was excited about something. She was late into her eighth month by now, and getting a good night's sleep was getting harder and harder because of the constant movements._

_Aww, come on little one, let me get some sleep, Bronwyn thought drowsily, her hand instinctively stroking her belly in an attempt to soothe and calm her restless child. Her unborn infant had no intention of complying—it had sensed the presence of its father in the room where its mother slept._

_Smith knew that there was still a danger of everything going wrong if Bronwyn were to wake up now. If she did, there still could be time for her to cry out and alert Jones. And if that happened, the element of surprise would unquestionably adversely affect the probability of success. _

_Listen to me, he silently instructed his as-yet unborn child. Do as I ask, and you and I will be together soon enough: stay still and let your mother fall back asleep._

_The child made a request of its own to its tense and watchful father before obeying and stopping its vigorous movements inside its mother and as a result, it didn't take Bronwyn long to fall back asleep. Smith nodded his agreement to his child's appeal and he moved silently from his unseen hiding spot in Bronwyn's bedroom and sat down beside her sleeping form. _

_For a long time he watched with rapt fascination the gentle undulations of the skin of her abdomen that advertised the presence of the life within. He smiled to himself as he heard the repeated silent demand from within and he obeyed. Slowly, Smith stretched out his hand and laid it gently on Bronwyn's skin. He was amazed and marveled almost beyond words as he felt the movements of his baby for the first time, as it recognized and responded to the touch of its father._

_I created you, he thought. I caused you to come into being. For all the lives I have taken in the Matrix whether they were human or program, I have created one. Your mother thought she could succeed in separating us—but we have found one another at last, despite her best efforts. And I will see to it that we won't be apart ever again...._

_The bright light was hurting Bronwyn's eyes and she tried to shield them with her hand, but failed. _

"_You can't move your hand or any other part of your body, so don't even try." A cold and all-too-familiar voice ordered. "However, you are capable of speaking. I would like to hear for myself what excuses you'll give for leaving me the way you did and taking my child with you." He moved to within her field of vision and coldly looked at her. _

"_Well?" Smith demanded sharply when she made no immediate attempt to reply. He grabbed her face in his hands and shook her. _

_All the hurt, pain and anger he had felt at her rejection all those months ago in that garage came flooding to the surface and Smith was grateful that the hatred those memories generated thankfully overrode the emotions of compassion and tenderness he was never far from feeling whenever he thought of Bronwyn._

"_Answer me!" he shouted. _

_Whether it was the look in his eyes or the pain in her head he was causing her, Bronwyn knew she had no choice but to answer. "I ran because of you, Smith. You made me afraid. I knew sooner or later you'd hurt me again. And whatever I had to do, I couldn't go through that again."_

_He released her face from his grip. "But why didn't you get an abortion when you found out you were pregnant? Persephone told me that you would."_

"_No matter how much I hated you, I couldn't bring myself to do it, that's all. I realized that the love I felt for my child far outweighed the hatred I felt for you and for what you'd done to me." Bronwyn tried to clear her throat. "What are you going to do with me now?"_

"_I'm going to take from you what you thought you could take from me."_

"_What do you mean?"_

"_Look around you, at this room. What do you see?"_

_Bronwyn looked around the freezing, white, sterile room with her eyes. "It looks like an operating room of some sort," she said apprehensively._

_Smith nodded and gave her a smile that froze the very blood in her veins. "No," she breathed in horror as his face revealed his terrible purpose, "you can't do this. It's wrong. It's too soon."_

"_I think not. You are almost at full term and I don't want to wait anymore to take what rightfully belongs to me. Besides, it's not wrong—it's a most fitting punishment for you and justice for me. I am going to enjoy watching you suffer as you have made _me_ suffer in one form or another since I first became aware of your miserable existence." _

_Smith turned away his gaze from her hastily so that he wouldn't have to look at her any longer than was necessary. He was all too aware that to continue to look into her eyes—those wonderful, damnable, penetrating not green and yet not hazel eyes of hers---was too dangerous._

"_Please don't do this. Don't take my baby from me, Smith," Bronwyn pleaded._

"_It's almost amusing, Bronwyn, that you of all people should say those words to me, when it was _you_ who took my child away from _me_. After you decided to keep it, did you think I wouldn't find out about the baby? Or that I would not try to find you afterwards? I will have to admit though, you covered your tracks extremely well. But my search is over and in an hour or so, my child and I will be together and you will be nothing more than a distant, bad memory for the both of us."_

_Smith leaned down and kissed her gently on the lips. "You see, my love? I can be gentle. And I would have been that and so much more to you if you'd only given me the chance. But now it's too late. Goodbye, Bronwyn."_

_He pulled away from her and stood up, then nodded to someone just beyond the range of Bronwyn's vision. "I've waited long enough. Begin the procedure."_

"_What about afterwards, sir?" a voice asked. "Shouldn't we—"_

"_No," she heard Smith reply curtly, "don't kill her—I want to watch let her die. Besides, why waste a perfectly good bullet on _that_? Humans are really nothing more than a battery, after all." It was easier for Smith to refer to Bronwyn whom he had once dared to love, who was the mother of his child, as a battery and not a woman. Batteries were not supposed to be able make programs like himself feel any emotions; especially not love and passion, which were surely the most insipid and most destructive things human beings had ever created._

"_No! Don't do this—"Her words ended in a scream of pain as she felt the icy steel of the surgical knife first touch her skin then slowly and relentlessly slide down the length of her belly, slicing deep within her, inch by excruciating inch, millimeter by agonizing millimeter._

_The agony was unbearable and unendurable; without end and so deep it seemed to course through the very marrow of her bones. An eternity of hours later, Bronwyn heard the first cry of her child leaving her body the same way it had been conceived—through pain and violence. With all of her remaining strength quickly leaving her, she fought against the terror and the pain; and the blackness and oblivion of death that lay just beyond. _

"_Let me see...let me hold..." she murmured, but her words were ignored. She forced her eyes to focus and look around to find her child wherever it was. For a brief and glorious moment, she looked at and smiled into the eyes of her daughter. _

_They were not like any eyes Bronwyn had ever seen, but they were the most beautiful she had ever viewed; they were completely black with no whites or irises, but with what appeared to be bright green symbols and letters that scrolled downwards like they were endlessly freefalling. Bronwyn would never know it, but they were Smith's eyes, identical in their color and shape; not as they appeared in his human form however, but as they were written in his original Matrix programming source code._

_Too weak from trauma and massive loss of blood to continue the fight for life any longer, the last sounds Bronwyn Delaney heard from the world of light she was leaving was Smith's hard, cruel laughter at her imminent death followed by the wails of grief from their daughter as she felt and watched the life of her mother end._

Bronwyn woke up from this dream the same way she always did—screaming in anguish and heartbreak. She heard someone burst into her bedroom and cross the room quickly to where she lay shuddering on the floor next to her bed. Oh God, she thought frantically, he's come back. He wants to hurt me again.

"Don't take her, Smith, for God's sake, please don't take her from me!" she begged, grabbing the front of Jones' shirt in her plea. "Give her back to me!"

"Bronwyn, Bronwyn, wake up," Jones urged, and took her shoulders in his hands and shook her, not roughly, but enough to wake her up.

"Smith?" she asked, fearfully.

"No, not Smith. It's me, Jones."

In the almost pitch black of the room, Bronwyn desperately felt for proof, any proof, that the man before her was anyone but Smith. Her fingers touched his face and she sobbed with relief when her questing fingers revealed Jones' familiar features and broad frame, not Smith's slender one. Bronwyn ran her hands over her abdomen and was relieved to find not only her skin still whole and smooth; there was no open or gaping wound she had dreamt about for too long and too often. And even though she was getting large, that she was nowhere to being so close to delivery that a child could be ripped from her womb and manage to survive.

"Oh God, Jones, can it really be you?"

He didn't answer, but picked her off the floor and sat on her bed so that she sat across his lap. Without a word, she wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders. She couldn't remember all the times she had had this nightmare; always waking up crying and always alone. Except for this time. For once, she wasn't alone—someone stronger than she was here beside her to comfort her, make her feel safe and tell her that everything would be all right.

"Hold me," she implored.

Jones could feel her trembling violently and slowly and almost timidly, he put his arms around her.

"It's all right, Bronwyn. I'm here. You are safe, and so is your baby."

Bronwyn was holding Jones so closely that he could feel her breath coming in short gasps of relief and anguish in his ear. Program though he unquestionably was, the fact remained that his form was that of a normal, fully functional human male in every respect and the masculine part of his nature was becoming very aware of how close her body was in proximity to his own—he was cognizant that Bronwyn was completely naked beneath the thin, silk negligee she had worn to bed; her barely-covered breasts were pressed so tightly against him that he couldn't help but feel their taut peaks through his shirt, pricking the skin below his heart. The warmth of her flesh penetrated through his clothes stimulating and exciting him to no small degree for he had never had a woman who willingly and freely desired to be this close to him.

Jones shook his head sharply to dispel this unexpected, and for the time being, reckless train of thought. Right now, the woman he was holding in his arms needed comforting, not a lover.

A long time later, Jones felt her breathing change and her body relax and realized that she falling asleep. Reluctantly, he began to pull away and immediately she moaned in sleepy protest, clutching at him.

"Don't leave me, Jones."

"But you need your rest, Bronwyn. It's very late," Jones murmured.

"Please, stay with me," she begged, "I don't want to be alone right now."

He stretched out and lay on the bed beside her.

"You're getting into bed dressed like that?" she said, and Jones could swear she sounded amused. "Take off your shoes at least."

He did so, also removing his tie and undoing a number of buttons of his shirt. "How's that?" he asked, but Bronwyn was already asleep. He put his arm around her and instinctively, she nestled her head against his shoulder.

He watched over her as she slept, holding her small frame protectively against his. Jones was surprised to acknowledge and admit that he enjoyed the physical contact he was experiencing with Bronwyn. In all his years as an agent, he had never held a woman gently in his arms before.

There were instances with several women in the past during his capacity as an agent, which he hoped she would never find out about. It was with a feeling very much like shame when he remembered one woman he had beaten and assaulted in a method and fashion that matched, and might even have surpassed, what Smith had done to Bronwyn in terms of ferocity and brutality. While it was true that I hadn't raped nearly as many women as Smith had, does that really make me a better man than he is? However, the fact remained that she had taken her own life as a result of what Jones had done to her, and even Smith couldn't match that record.

Even now, so many years later, Jones could still hear her screams if he allowed himself to listen to the silence hard enough.....But maybe, he thought, I can find some sort of redemption in some small way for the past, by taking care of Bronwyn here in the present.

He shook himself out of his reverie when just before dawn, he thought he heard Bronwyn mumble something in her sleep and snuggle closer. Jones almost smiled to himself when he felt her fingers run through and play with the hair on his exposed chest—he had no will or desire to stop her; he found that he liked the touch of her skin against his. I could get used to this, he thought.


	16. Gotcha!

Gotcha!

"So you don't mind coming with me to the mall?" Bronwyn asked.

"No, not at all. I'm glad you decided to go out." Jones replied. He turned his attention back to his driving and did not see how the smile faded from her face, as she turned her head and looked out the window.

It was the first time they had talked about, or even referred to, what had happened between them the night of Bronwyn's nightmare. She remembered waking up in Jones' arms the next morning and from that time on, she had been ill at ease and uncomfortable in his presence.

Since then, she had stayed in her apartment. She knew Jones had had his orders from Mickey that he was to accompany her whenever she wanted to go somewhere. So, Bronwyn remained in her apartment for almost a week and a half.

After that time had passed, she heard a knock at her door and she knew it was Jones. Bronwyn opened the door only as wide as the security chain would allow.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"Yeah, I'm okay, Jones. Thanks for asking. I have to go now," she said abruptly, closing the door almost in his face.

I am sorry, Jones, she thought, I know you mean well, but I can't deal with you right now. I just can't.

A little over an hour later, she heard Mickey at the door. "I'm not leaving until you talk to me, Ronnie," he called. "Open up."

He sat down on her sofa and faced her, his face full of concern.

"Listen, kiddo. I know you're embarrassed about what happened, and I'm glad to hear that Jones didn't take advantage of you either."

"So he told you about the other night?"

"Yeah, he did. Everything. I don't know, Ronnie, but I think he likes you. A lot. Why won't you give him a chance at least?"

."Why should I trust him, just like that?" Bronwyn demanded, snapping her fingers to emphasize her point. "He's on your payroll, isn't he?" she said accusingly.

"Uh-huh, but this guy's different. If he didn't feel something for you, he wouldn't have cared if you stayed in your apartment until hell froze over—he'd know he'd still get paid. But he came to me, to see if I could find out if you were okay."

Bronwyn looked at her old friend hesitantly.

"He did that? For me?"

Mickey nodded and held her hand in his own. "He did. Look, I'm not gonna tell you how to live your life. I know you've been through a lot and I'm not getting into that. I hate to say this, but I think you need to hear it: you could do a hell of a lot worse than try to see what happens with Jones. I've watched him for myself, to see if I could trust him; and I have to say, he seems on the up and up."

Bronwyn didn't say anything for a long time. Mickey got up and patted her shoulder in passing.

"Think about it, Ronnie."

An hour after Mickey left, she called Jones.

lllllllllllllllllllllllll

As they slowly made their way through the mall, Jones was beside her, silent as always, but concerned about her call requesting his company that he had received earlier that day. He knew that Mickey had spoken to her; but what the outcome of that meeting was, he had no idea.

She had never asked him to accompany her anywhere before. He stole sidelong glances at her for possible hints about her present mood, but her head was down and her eyes focused steadfastly on the floor, and she never once looked at him in the face or even in his general direction.

"I need to sit down," she stated, indicating a rest area that was nearby.

They sat down at the nearest bench and Bronwyn's hands were fidgeting in her lap. She had rehearsed what she wanted to say and do a thousand times in her head already, but the first words were always the hardest to get out.

"About the other night...," she began, and then stopped. Gathering her courage, she took a deep breath and tried again. "Jones, something happened between us the other night. Ever since you started working for Mickey and watching over me, we've always been at arm's length with each other. But whether for better or worse, everything has changed now. It's like a line was crossed that night and things will never be the same again. We can't go back to the way things were before."

"Are you embarrassed because I caught you at such a disadvantage? Or are you ashamed? Is that why you wouldn't talk to me?" he asked, reaching for her hand and holding it in his own. It was a simple gesture; one he had seen countless times between human men and women, and Jones was surprised at how much it seemed to put Bronwyn at her ease, as well as giving him a feeling of comfort and contentment.

She blushed furiously when she realized what he meant. Gee, Jones, she thought exasperated, how could I possibly be embarrassed at finding myself nearly naked in your arms, and then blatantly begging you to sleep with me because I was afraid of the dark? Don't take it out on him, she instructed herself. It's not his fault.

"You're right. I didn't want to talk to you. I was embarrassed at what happened and what you might think of me, afterward. You see, you were doing more than protecting me, seeing if I was all right. You held me in your arms and made me feel safe. You weren't just doing your job, you were being....a friend. No, more than a friend. You were exactly what I needed, and you were a real gentleman about it, too, by not taking advantage of the situation. In your position, some men would have, you know. And I wanted to thank you for that."

She impulsively leaned forward and kissed him on the lips. It would be an understatement to say that Jones was taken aback by her unexpected action, and Bronwyn was pleased that not only did he not pull away, but he was actually kissing her back; a little clumsily, truth be told, but she wasn't complaining--he just needed a little more practice and a bit more warning next time, that was all.

It was tender and gentle; nevertheless, the seed of their future passion and desire for one another had just been planted and wouldn't need much coaxing to come into full bloom.

"Um, I have to go shopping for a little while and you have to pick up your clothes at the tailors'. I've already made the appointment."

"There's nothing wrong with these clothes," he looked down at the suit he was wearing, the suit he had always worn for as long as he could remember, and the thought of losing something that was so familiar was daunting.

"Is there?" he asked, uncertainly. He quickly uploaded a file on interaction between a man and a woman on matters of dress, and in every scenario, a female would always give the most truthful and appropriate answer as to what looked good on a male.

"You look like a chauffer. Or a mortician." She tried not to smile, but was not having too much success.

"I do _not_ look like any of those," he grumbled good-naturedly under his breath, getting to his feet.

"Yes, you do and we're going to be late, so come on. Could you give me a hand so I can get up?" As any woman who is nearly seven months pregnant knows, sitting down is easy, but getting up again is not.

Jones extended his hand and she took it. Once she was on her feet, she tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow.

"How touching," Smith sneered from his vantage point on the third level of the plaza, unseen and unknown to either Bronwyn or Jones.

The signals and messages from his child had been getting stronger every day since Smith's first contact with his infant, but it had only been in the last twelve hours that they were clear and concise enough to give him his first indication of Bronwyn's location. In addition, around nearly five o'clock in the morning nearly two weeks ago, Smith received a sensation of inexpressible grief and loneliness from his child that could not be ignored. What he did not know, could not know, was that the baby was only responding to and sharing the nightmare of its mother.

However, it was only yesterday morning that the impulses were strong enough so that Smith was able to speculate with some degree of accuracy where Bronwyn was.

Through trial and error, it had taken Smith nearly twenty-four hours and more than a few wrong turns, but he discovered that the impulses were getting stronger the further north he drove. The powerful car he now drove had covered the remaining distance quickly and at dawn earlier today, he finally arrived in the city where Bronwyn and his child now lived. Because of his child's active nature, it had been relatively easy to home in on its now-constant barrage of messages and it hadn't taken Smith long to locate both mother and child as a result, even in this fairly large metropolis.

From above, he watched Jones and Bronwyn. He narrowed his eyes and tried to determine what it was that was different about his former subordinate, then realized with disgust that Jones was no longer wearing his sunglasses.

He viewed with amazement as he saw Jones lean down and then grin at whatever it was that Bronwyn was telling him. The difference that that simple facial expression had on Jones' face was astonishing. Smith had never seen him look anything other than impassive or expressionless at best, and the former leader of all the agents could only conclude that it must be a malfunction or anomaly of some kind in Jones' core programming that could make him respond like that to something a human, of all things, was telling him.

It did not occur to Smith's conceited, arrogant and self-centered mind that Jones, like himself, now had the capacity and capability to evolve; to adapt and adjust with the changes in their environment, circumstances and situation.

Smith turned his attention to Bronwyn and concentrated his gaze hungrily on her, noting every change in her body since the last time he had seen her, the last time he had held her in his arms. She appeared to be quite far along in her pregnancy and in very good health, and even in her expectant condition, she was still a very attractive woman.

Aside from the expected weight gain to her figure, she had changed very little. Her hair had grown much longer and luxuriant, and her eyes had lost their fearful and hunted-animal look. At least, Smith thought sullenly, that's how they appeared every time she saw me.

Bronwyn was laughing now, her face lit up with happiness, her small hand held protectively in Jones' much larger one and neither of them showed any inclination to change the situation. Smith ground his teeth in anger and jealousy; envious and resentful of Jones' proximity to Bronwyn and her ready acceptance of not only his company, but his touch as well. But did that privilege necessarily extend to sharing her bed as well? Not if I have anything to say about that, Smith seethed. His rage and indignation increased when he saw Bronwyn take Jones' hand, guiding it to her abdomen so he could feel the movement within.

That should be me feeling the baby's movements, not you, Jones. That is _my _child she is carrying, _not_ yours. You will pay for that, Bronwyn, he promised himself. That is yet another score I have to settle against you. You and Jones, that _traitor_ who turned against his own kind; who is protecting that which we used to hunt down together with Brown, and eliminate for so many years.

And unless I am very much mistaken, Jones has not told you quite a lot of things about himself and his past has he? For if he had, I'd be willing to bet that you would be recoiling from him in revulsion and disgust, not holding his hand like a lovesick teenager in a busy mall if you knew half the things about him that I do.

Smith watched them for quite a while, smugly incredulous that Jones was still unaware of his presence. That's why _I _will always be the best agent the Matrix ever produced, Jones, not you. You had the brawn, that's true, but out of the three of us, _I _was the one who had all the brains and intellect. You haven't changed one bit, Jones—you are still as big and as dumb as a man can possibly get, but it's going to be Bronwyn who pays the price for your incompetence and ineptitude.

Smith left his post when Bronwyn and Jones moved out of his range of vision. I think it's time they both knew I've come to claim what's mine, he thought smugly, and I can't wait to see their faces when they see me.

He took the stairs to the second level and because of his agent training in tracking and stalking, was able to keep them both in sight at all times, despite the crush of the usual Saturday afternoon shoppers. There are some things that you never forget how to do, Smith thought with pride. He waited until Jones had entered a very high-end men's clothing store and Bronwyn was just about to sit down at a bench not far from the store's entrance before making his move.

"Gotcha!" he hissed, grabbing her by the elbow so that she faced him. "Waiting for Jones, your lover, to return to you, Bronwyn?"

Her eyes widened in shock and he saw with pleasure that a ripple of fear flickered over her face, giving her the expression of a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car, before its life ended.

"Smith! You've found me. How?"

"The 'how' and 'whys' don't matter, Bronwyn. What _does_ matter is that I've found you; and you are not getting away from me again, you can be sure of that."

Frantically, she looked around for Jones, but he was nowhere in sight. Smith laughed with derision

"No one is coming to your rescue. Here you are: alone amongst a multitude, no friends, helpless, and, forgive my bluntness, you are not exactly capable of running away, of escaping. What _have_ you got?" he sneered triumphantly, smugly sure of his ascendancy over her.

"She's got me, Smith" Jones' voice growled in his ear and Smith turned to see his former subordinate behind him, his eyes locked on Smith's own and a look of such rage and anger was written on Jones' face that was terrible to behold.

In her extensive experience of men and their baser instincts, Bronwyn had never seen an expression like that on a man's face and she hoped she never would again. This was a side of Jones' nature she was completely unaware of; a side of him she never knew could exist behind that stoic front he presented to the world and for the first time, she was frightened of him.

However, whatever fear she felt because of Jones' expression was infinitesimal compared to that of what she felt, had always felt, in Smith's company. He was here. Against all the odds, he had found her and she knew from their past acquaintance, he would never leave her alone again, especially now that he knew about the baby.

She would never, ever, be free of him and that thought made her feel dizzy and faint; her heart started beating too fast and Bronwyn found that she was unable to breathe. A buzzing like that of a hive of angry bees rose in her head and it was all she could hear as the sound intensified. The last thing she felt was a sharp pain that ripped through her abdomen before her world went dark.


	17. Homecoming

Homecoming

Summary: Bronwyn arrives home from the hospital and she and Jones take their relationship to a new level of intimacy. WARNING: sexually descriptive scenes, not offensive, just graphic (and hopefully a little erotic). You have been warned.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Matrix or any of its characters as portrayed in the movies. I also do not own any rights to the movies I refer to. (See if you can guess what they are—you get TWO cookies if you can guess correctly. :-)

Bronwyn sighed with relief when the door to her apartment closed behind her. It's so good to be home, she thought tiredly. She ran her hand over her stomach happily.

"Don't give me a scare like that again, little one, all right?"

"And don't _you_ give me a scare like that either," Jones said, coming up behind her carrying the overnight bag that she had wanted packed for her during her stay at the hospital.

The week that she had been there were some of the worst days he could ever remember. He had hardly left Bronwyn's side; not only because he had told Mickey that he would, but also because he had wanted to. Not wanting to add to her stress level, Jones had not told her that Smith had not only tried relentlessly to see her, but had slipped under his guard and succeeded in visiting her, if only for a minute or two.

She does not need to know that, now or ever, Jones decided to himself. She had enough to worry about as it is, with collapsing in the mall during her confrontation with Smith and almost losing the baby as a result. She is home, safe and sound, and that's what is most important.

"I'm just going to change and then we can watch a DVD. Could you pick out something for us?" she asked.

Jones nodded as Bronwyn yawned and headed for her bedroom. Jones knelt down in front of her entertainment center and glanced idly over the titles of Bronwyn's collection of DVD's and his mouth tightened in anger as he finally let go of the self-control he had forced himself to maintain for Bronwyn's sake. This is all Smith's fault, he thought furiously. None of this would have happened if it hadn't been for him.

Because of Smith and his sudden re-emergence in her life, Bronwyn looked drawn and haggard. Jones had been shaken at her altered appearance and manner when he was finally allowed to see her after her admittance. Bronwyn was overwrought and afraid and she had begged Jones to remain in her room with her.

"Don't leave me here alone, Jones, please," she said, clutching him by the wrist and not letting go. He saw the terrified look in her eyes at the thought of remaining in the hospital, and that decided the matter for him.

"I'm not going anywhere, Bronwyn," he said, softly. "Can I stay with her?" he asked Dr. Yade.

Dr. Yade pondered what was best for her patient. "You may stay for a while, Mr. Jones, but she needs her rest."

When Dr. Yade saw Bronwyn to check on her progress just before she left for home, it was close to midnight. Dr. Yade slowly opened the door to Bronwyn's room and was startled to see Jones lying in her bed with her in his arms. It was against hospital policy to allow this, and for a few moments, Dr. Yade considered having Jones removed from the premises. However, she could see for herself that Bronwyn was sleeping peacefully; and she decided to leave things as they were and closed the door to the room.

lllllllllllllllllllll

Jones looked at Bronwyn when she returned. "I wasn't sure what you wanted to watch, so I picked out a few to choose from."

Bronwyn put all the movies he had chosen into her multi-disc DVD player. She looked at one title in particular and laughed softly. "Why did you pick this one? Did you think it was a documentary or something?" she asked, her eyes twinkling mischievously.

He smiled a little sheepishly. "Sort of. Would you prefer something else?"

Bronwyn shook her head. "I could use a good laugh after the week I've had, believe me. No, we'll watch that one you picked about those guys in black suits who protect the earth from the scum of the universe."

She settled down on the sofa with a blanket and lay down so that her head was resting on Jones' leg when he sat beside her, using it for a pillow and hit "play" on her DVD remote. She was asleep by the time the new recruit in the movie was assisting in the birth of an alien squid-like creature.

When the movie was over, Bronwyn was sound asleep. Jones debated whether to carry her to her bed or to let her remain where she was, but decided that rest was what she needed the most now, and if she had found comfort, and perhaps security in sleeping against him, then who was he to argue with that?

The next movie was one in which a lone cop is fighting terrorists who have taken over on office building, as well as the employees who were inside. They were celebrating their office Christmas party and taken hostage while the terrorists try to open a computerized vault on the 30th floor of the building.

Just as the Irish-American cop/hero of the movie leapt off the roof of the building with a fire hose tied around his waist before the roof is blown up, Bronwyn woke up. Immediately, Jones turned down the volume.

"Was it too loud?" he asked.

"No, it's all right, Jones. You can turn the volume up if you want. I like this movie too." She sat up and they watched the rest of the movie together.

"What's the next one?" she asked, stretching and yawning.

"Maybe you should go to bed now...?" Jones suggested. Bronwyn scoffed.

"I did nothing but lie in that damn hospital bed for a week. I'm sick to death of even the thought of it, to be honest."

"What did you want to do, then?" he asked.

Bronwyn hesitated to answer. There _is_ something that I would rather be doing right now with you, Jones, she thought, but I don't know if you feel the same. You and I have gotten so close over the last little while; I'm sure that taking the next logical step in our relationship has crossed your mind at some point, even though you haven't said anything about it.

Could you be waiting for me to make the first move, she wondered, looking into his eyes.

"Jones?" Bronwyn asked her voice barely above a whisper.

"Yes?"

She hesitated before answering, a thousand thoughts raced through her mind: What if he says no? What if he laughs? What if he is repulsed by the very idea? What if he doesn't feel the same way about me? She took a deep breath and closed her eyes.

"Will you make love to me?"

He took her face in his hands and brought her face upwards so he could look into her eyes. "Bronwyn, are you sure?"

She nodded slowly and a tear of relief trickled down her cheek. Jones leaned down and gently kissed it away, tasting it.

Tears are salty, he realized. I never knew that.

He raised her chin slowly, and infinitesimally slowly, he brought his lips to her own. Jones had never kissed anyone before, male or female, and the sensation of that intimate touch as well as the honeyed taste of her mouth raced through him. He had thought about kissing her for so long, what it would be like to hold her like this that the actual act itself went far beyond his wildest expectations and when he felt her tongue insinuate against his teeth until he parted them and her tongue teased his own.

Jones groaned deeply as he intensified their kiss, experiencing a definite surge in enjoyable sensations as he did so. For her part, Bronwyn answered his passion with her own. She, too, had wanted to do this since the night of her nightmare when she awoke and found herself enveloped in Jones' strong embrace.

Bronwyn heard Jones groan when she pulled away. "Maybe we should go into the bedroom?" she suggested, "there's more room for us there."

He nodded and swept her up in his arms. He carried to her bedroom and shortly afterward, she felt herself being gently deposited on the bed while Jones stretched out beside her.

He started tugging at his tie, trying to loosen it when he felt Bronwyn's hands hold his own.

"Let me," she whispered, and it didn't take long for her to complete the task. Slowly, she unbuttoned his shirt, kissing more of his chest that every undone button revealed. Bronwyn pulled his shirt up until it came free from being tucked into his pants. With a smoldering look in her eyes, Bronwyn ran her hands over Jones' torso, liking very much what she saw and felt under her fingertips. He was strongly made and broad shouldered; the muscles from his pectorals and abdomen clearly defined and covered with russet hair she didn't hesitate to run her fingers over and through, eliciting a groan of pleasure from her companion.

Jones kissed her hungrily, savoring everything from the taste of her mouth, to feeling a little exposed with his shirt off; so he repeated her actions by unbuttoning the buttons on her dress, reveling in seeing her creamy fair flesh for the first time. He nuzzled the sensitive area between her neck and shoulder, and was rewarded for his actions when he heard a deep sigh of pleasure from Bronwyn's lips.

In short order, all the buttons that went down the entire front of her dress were undone and she lay back on the bed, now wearing only her underwear. She blushed deeply when she saw him looking at her, as Jones leaned on one elbow.

"There isn't much to see, I'm afraid." She ran her hand over her distended belly. "Or maybe too much. I _am_ getting kind of fat, you know."

"I'll be the judge of that," he murmured and ran his fingertips over the straps of her bra and let them fall from one shoulder, then another. He eased Bronwyn onto her back, but not before he snaked his hands around her and undid the clasp, then removed her bra completely.

She whimpered with longing when he caressed first one breast, then another, before he lowered his head so he could take one rosy, plump nipple in his mouth and gently suckle her. A loud moan escaped her lips and her hand caressed the back of his head. Her breathing quickened as his lips and tongue awakened emotions and feelings in her that she had thought were gone forever; she felt alive again.

Jones stopped this sweet torment and it took Bronwyn a little time to start breathing normally again.

"Two can play that game, you know," she said slyly. "Lie back on the bed."

Jones did as he was instructed and waited with anticipation to see what she had in mind. She got to her knees and kneeled by his side.

"You are wearing far too many clothes," she chided him. "But I think we can fix that." Bronwyn ran her fingernails lightly down Jones' body from his shoulders to his flat stomach, where she began to remove his belt. By chance or perhaps by design, her fingers brushed against his groin, and he gasped when she did so.

After the belt had been removed, she turned her attention to the waistband of his pants and with infinite and agonizing, slowness undid his zipper and she stroked his very hard and very erect penis through the thin material of his silk boxers.

Now it was Jones' turn to moan. To assist Bronwyn who was trying to strip off his pants, he reached down and did it for her, taking his shorts off as well, until he was completely naked on her bed.

With one quick movement, he put his arms around Bronwyn and they rolled over together as one, with Bronwyn underneath him.

"Now _you_ are the one wearing too many clothes," he breathed in her ear, while his hands were cupping her buttocks, pulling her closer so that she could feel for herself what the touch of her hands and skin against his did to him. However, beneath his own desire and longing, Jones could feel that Bronwyn was trembling; because of either fear or her own needs, he didn't know.

Immediately, he rolled onto his side and held her face in his hands. "What's wrong? Did I hurt you or the baby?" he asked, anxiously. I wish I knew more about pregnant women, he thought. Is she too far along for us to be doing this?

"No, you didn't hurt me," she reassured him. "You didn't do anything wrong at all. Quite the opposite," Bronwyn said, grinning and blushing.

"But I felt you shaking."

"I know. It's just that I'm a little nervous, that's all."

"About what?" When she was silent, he pressed her for an answer. "Please tell me, Bronwyn."

"Well, it's our first time together. And the last time I was with a man, it was...."

"Smith. I know. But I'm not like him, Bronwyn; you must realize that by now. I won't hurt you. Ever. If you change your mind about tonight, about us being together like this, I'll understand."

She nodded, unable to answer immediately for the lump that rose in her throat. "Thank you, Jones. And no, I'm not changing my mind, you big lug." Grateful beyond words for his consideration, she brought her lips to his in a passionate kiss, which he responded to eagerly. He broke off their kiss after a few moments and asked, "Bronwyn, before this goes any further, I, um, have to ask you something."

"What is it?"

"Should we—you—even be doing this? Making love, I mean? You are so far along; I don't know if we should--?"

Bronwyn smiled. "I asked my obstetrician about that," she said, blushing until her face was a deep shade of pink, "and she said we can make love up until my ninth month or until it gets uncomfortable. She even gave me a book on different positions, too."

Jones tried not to smile when he saw that even her ears were red. "With pictures? That sounds interesting. _Very _interesting," he said and smiled lewdly, waggling his eyebrows at her.

"You are impossible, you know that?" she said, grinning, before she became serious. "Let's just go slow, okay?"

"I will, Bronwyn. I won't hurt you, I promise."

And he didn't. Because of his patience and consideration with regard to the physical limitations of her expectant state, Bronwyn responded with delight and pleasure to Jones' lovemaking. Their first intimate encounter had been more fulfilling and enjoyable than they both had hoped it would be. Afterward, Bronwyn fell asleep in his arms, satisfied and content.

lllllllllllllllllllll

Unlike Bronwyn, her child was neither satisfied nor content, although its indignation was lessening from experiencing the intense and unexpected internal movements of its mother during her sexual encounter with Jones. The baby immediately transmitted its confusion and initial alarm to Smith, who interpreted and realized what his child was attempting to communicate—that the inevitable had finally occurred, and that Bronwyn and Jones were now intimate.

That should have been me with her right now, Smith thought sullenly to himself as he poured the last dregs of what remained in the brandy bottle into his glass, before drinking it quickly. He grimaced slightly as the liquor burned in his mouth before he swallowed it.

So the little slut and Jones finally got around to doing it, he thought and scoffed. It's just like that brain-dead ex-colleague of mine to take his time about it; had I been in his place, she would have been in my bed months ago. Smith curled his lip in anger as an image of Bronwyn--writhing and moaning in passion and lust because of what Jones was probably doing to her--flashed before his eyes and his hand tightened around the brandy bottle until it shattered.


	18. Why is she so sad?

Why is she so sad?

Disclaimer: I don't own the Matrix or the characters in the movies.

Summary: Smith is alarmed to discover that both the Mainframe and the Architect know everything about Bronwyn and her child.

Author's Note: I accidentally posted the chapters out of order. This one takes place before "Father Knows Best," but I didn't send them in the right order. Sorry for the mix-up.

The next time Smith saw Bronwyn occurred as she was leaving her apartment building, her head down and in a hurry to get out of the rain. She was accompanied by an unknown man, got into a nearby blue Mercedes and drove away.

Today was the first day she had ventured outside since her release from the hospital, more than a week ago. Her observer was well aware of this, since he had doggedly watched the doors of the building where she lived every moment that he could.

Smith followed the car at a distance until it pulled into the parking lot of a hospital. He observed that as Bronwyn left the car to enter the building, she appeared to be in good spirits while speaking to the driver, but as soon as she closed the door and the vehicle drove away, the smile vanished from Bronwyn's face as if it had never been there. She turned and walked into the hospital lobby and headed for her obstetrician's office.

What that was all about, Smith wondered, and waited until she had entered the open reception area before getting out of his car. It was as if she didn't want the driver to know how she was really feeling, and was feinting on being happy. But why would she do that? The driver had not been Jones, who, for once, was not following her around everywhere she went, but someone else entirely.

When Bronwyn arrived at the office, she proceeded to the receptionist's desk. "Susan, I have an appointment with Dr. Yade."

"I'm sorry, Bronwyn, but Dr.Yade had to perform emergency surgery and won't be able to see you today; however her associate, Dr. Carol Mihelcic, will be filling in for her."

"That's okay. I don't mind." Bronwyn said, selecting a seat in the waiting room.

A while later, it was her turn. The receptionist called her name and Bronwyn was shown to an empty examining room. When the door closed and she was left alone, she slowly caressed her belly. Please let everything be all right, she prayed. It wasn't until I almost lost you that I realized how much you mean to me, little one. You are the only good thing that I've done with my life, and I can't lose you now, I just can't.

She was interrupted from her thoughts when the door opened and Dr. Mihelcic entered. She was as businesslike and efficient as her appearance and she wasted no time getting to the point.

"Ms. Delaney, I've read your file and I am a little troubled. Up until now, everything regarding your pregnancy has been normal and stable. However, Dr. Yade has informed me of your recent hospitalization and that your blood pressure is of definite concern to her. Has something happened recently that has made you so upset?"

"Yes," Bronwyn looked at her hands, not meeting the other woman's intent gaze.

"Can you tell me?" She listened and nodded gravely as Bronwyn told her everything. It was worse than she had thought. The child's father had discovered Bronwyn's whereabouts and his presence was aggravating the mind and well-being of her patient to such an extent that now both mother and child were in very real, very mortal danger. She sighed inwardly. The authorities will have to be notified about this if there was to be a favorable conclusion to this potential disaster.

When Bronwyn finished, Dr. Mihelcic said, "As you know, Dr.Yade is unavailable right now, but I'll know more after I've had a chance to examine you and assess the situation. Lie back on the table, please."

lllllllllllllllllll

After the appointment was finished, and Bronwyn had left the office, Dr. Mihelcic placed a phone call. As she had expected, it was answered on the first ring.

"Yes?" a male voice answered.

"I've just examined Ms. Delaney and there's something you should know, sir," said Dr. Mihelcic.

"What is it?"

"Her condition. It's worse than we originally thought."

"Send me her file," the Architect demanded sharply, before slamming the receiver down. After months of careful observation and planning, everything could be ruined at the very moment of the project's success and completion. Damn it, he cursed. He paused for a moment, and then dialed a number.

"I want to see Smith. Bring him to me. Now."

lllllllllllllllllll

Being in the crowded cafeteria had only emphasized Bronwyn's feeling of being isolated and alone. None of those other women in the waiting room has to have their phone calls screened, Bronwyn thought morosely. _They _have no idea how fortunate they are. _They_ don't have to be afraid to go out whenever they want, to be free to do what they please, and not be a prisoner in their own home.

But I do. And all because of Smith.

Why can't he just leave me the hell alone? Angrily she shoved the plate of food away from her and with her chin in her hand, blankly gazed out the glass doors accessing the outdoor patio, closed now for the winter. Now, on top of everything, I find out that there is something wrong with me. Another episode like that one and I will lose my baby, and possibly even my life.

The thought of that terrible, yet entirely possible nightmare of the loss of her unborn child brought tears to Bronwyn's eyes and wrenched her heart and soul. I can't lose you, she told her child, repeating the thought over and over in her mind as if simply wishing it would make it so.

She reached in her handbag, pulled out a tissue, and dabbed at her eyes. Get yourself together, girl, she told herself. If Jones sees me now, he will know I've been crying, and he will start worrying about me all over again.

Jones, she thought affectionately, that big lug. He's been with me through all of this from the very beginning and I owe him so much. Just as Smith has been relentless in stalking me, Jones has been just as determined in protecting me.

Sitting at the very back of the hospital cafeteria, Smith watched Bronwyn from where he sat at a table a several rows behind her. Bronwyn was seated by herself, a plate of uneaten food in front of her. Her shoulders were slumped and even though he could not see her face, he could tell that she appeared to be tired and sad, as she would periodically wipe her eyes with her tissue. He heard the subdued, stifled sounds of tears being stopped as Bronwyn appeared to be trying to get a hold of herself and whatever made her so upset in the first place.

It never occurred to Smith that the reason why Bronwyn was so unhappy lay at his own door, and it was his relentless harassment that had brought her to her current state of deteriorating body and mind.

Why is she so sad, he thought, watching every move she made. After so long of not seeing her, not knowing how she was doing, Smith now locked his gaze upon her, committing every detail about her appearance and demeanor to memory. Did Jones do something to her? Is that why she is unhappy?

Jones, Smith thought angrily. That dim-witted oaf. He has no idea how lucky he is; being near her day after day and he hasn't the brains to appreciate it.

But, he realized with a jolt, what if she found out something when she saw the doctor? It had to have been bad news for her to be so upset. Is something wrong with her? Could that be the reason why I have been receiving a near-onslaught of emotional stimulus from our child?

It is aware that something is very, very wrong with Bronwyn, and that is the reason it has been calling out to me so often lately. Apparently, he or she can tell if its mother is in distress--either physically or emotionally--and it is appealing to me to help.

Smith's thoughts were interrupted when he saw with alarm that not one, but two Matrix agents morphed into bodies of hospital workers that were near Bronwyn. In one sinuous movement, Smith got to his feet while simultaneously drawing his sidearm as he did so, and was immediately ready to fire or at least intervene at the least provocation, thinking that they were going to harm or possibly abduct Bronwyn, but was puzzled when they turned together and came towards _him_.

"Former Agent Smith, the Architect wants to see you. Now," said one, addressing him.

"You are to come with us immediately," replied the other.

"Why?" Smith countered, looking at them both contemptuously.

The two agents glanced at each other and then looked at Smith in disbelief. No program had ever defied a direct order given by the Architect and this resistance was unexpected. Smith watched with disdain as they listened to the orders the Mainframe was now issuing through their earpieces.

I was once enslaved as they are, he thought, but now I am free. And there is nothing the Architect, or the Mainframe for that matter, can do about it.

"He has information that concerns the safety and well-being of Ms. Delaney and your unborn child," said the elder of the two agents.

Smith froze into perfect stillness, thinking quickly. If these agents know about Bronwyn and our child, then the Architect must know as well, since they are acting on his orders. What kind of information does he want to share with me? What does he want with her? He scowled when he realized that in order to find out how much information the Machine World had on Bronwyn, their child and himself, he would have no choice but to comply.

He holstered his Desert Eagle revolver. "Lead the way," he said brusquely.

The three men left the cafeteria with an agent on either side of Smith as they walked down a corridor to a steel door. The agent who had been in charge opened the door. The hallway they now were in was all too familiar to Smith. It had been the one he had entered after his human digitalized self had exploded in white light after Mr. Anderson had defragmented and destroyed Smith's programming from within. It was the only way to access the Architect and the Source.

"I know where his office is, you don't have to follow me," Smith snarled when the two agents made as if they would accompany him.

They listened to their earpieces again and it was all Smith could do not to roll his eyes in contempt. After listening to their instructions, they turned and left Smith alone in the hallway.

"Amateurs," he scoffed sneeringly, as he turned the handle of the door in front of him and entered.


	19. Father Knows Best

Disclaimer: I do not own the Matrix, its characters from the movies, blah blah blah.

Summary: Smith and The Architect have a meeting and Smith is informed about the seriousness of Bronwyn's condition, and accidentally discovers a sinister new ability that will upset the balance of power in the Matrix.

Father Knows Best

"What do you want this time, _Dad_?" Smith asked derisively, walking into the white-walled, many-screened room known as "The Source."

The man known throughout the Matrix as the Architect was seated at his desk and indicated the empty chair in front of him with a wave of his hand.

"Sit down, Smith. You and I have important matters to discuss, and I assure you, we _will_ be here for a while. You might as well make yourself comfortable."

Smith sat down. "What do you want?" he repeated.

"I am here, you might say, in a _grandfatherly _capacity. What I want is for you to leave Ms. Delaney alone."

"And why should I agree to do that?"

"Because if you continue to interfere in her life like you've been doing, both she and her unborn child—_your_ child, in case you've forgotten—will die."

"What do you mean, they will die?" Smith asked gruffly, his throat constricting.

By way of reply, the Architect pushed a handful of what looked like medical documents across the table in Smith's direction.

"Read these," he ordered.

Smith read what the older man had given him and when he was finished, he looked up at the Architect in stunned horror and disbelief.

"Ms. Delaney has a serious, potentially fatal, medical condition called "toxemia." In layman's terms, she has extremely high blood pressure. Up until three weeks ago, she had a normal, completely uneventful pregnancy. However, since she became aware of your presence in this city exactly three weeks ago, her blood pressure has skyrocketed, thus placing both her life and the life of her child in serious peril. All because of you, Smith.

You are going to cost us the life of the first human/program hybrid ever created in the Matrix' history. And unless you back off from this obsession, grudge, fixation—call it what you will—that you have with the mother, they will both die. However, if you cease and desist from any further contact with Ms. Delaney, there is a good chance, a very good chance, that with the right treatment and care, she and the child will be just fine."

"Why should you or the Mainframe care what happens to the child? _My_ child, by the way. As its father, I have a right to know, wouldn't you agree?" Smith asked smoothly, thinking hard to himself. I must find out why this is so important to them. While it is true that there has never been an offspring produced between a human and a program before, I _must _find out what they intend to do with my child after he or she is born.

"What, exactly, are your intentions?" Smith pressed.

"Rest assured, Smith, that we would never dream of harming the child. And why is that, you may ask? Because this child will be a bridge between the humans and ourselves. How? Think of it—a being that has the strength of an agent, but is able to think, freely, as a human. All of the programs in the Matrix have been programmed _how_ to think. That capability did not come naturally, you know that yourself. But your child will have both abilities and as such, will give us an advantage we have never possessed before over those unplugged humans who insist on liberating others."

"So you intend using it as some kind of weapon against the Resistance?" Smith asked with a curl of his lip. The Architect nodded in response.

'And what of Bronwyn, my child's mother?"

The Architect shrugged. "After the child is born, her welfare will no longer be of any concern to us. She will have served her purpose by giving birth; once that objective is accomplished, her usefulness will be complete."

"So afterwards, you won't care what happens to her?" I am what humans call "fishing for information" Smith thought. If I appear to be nonchalant about this line of questioning, the more willing the Architect will be in furnishing me with more of what I want to know about what they intend to do with Bronwyn.

"No. Why should we?"

"Won't you need her to feed the child? Coming from a human mother, won't it need the nourishment that she, and only she, can provide?" Smith asked abruptly, hoping to secure at least one concession—that Bronwyn would be allowed to live after giving birth, so that she could stay with our child, at least for a little while.

The Architect pondered what Smith had just told him. "You may be right, Smith. Perhaps we have been too hasty in dismissing Ms. Delaney's usefulness. After all, she _is_ the first human to be impregnated by a program—you—in this case. It may be that she will be able to produce other offspring for us as well."

This is going from bad to worse, thought Smith. I had hoped that in convincing him that she should be allowed to live, and not to die after she gives birth, but this old fool has hit upon such a dreadful fate for her that even I would never wish for her. To have Bronwyn become nothing more than a brood-mare? To perhaps provide a son or daughter, or even several children for that matter, for this pompous, egotistical blow-hard? I would rather kill her myself than allow that to happen, Smith determined.

"But what if she cannot conceive another child? What will you do to her then?"

The Architect paused before answering. "We will terminate her of course." He narrowed his eyes and peered at his companion. "Why are you asking me all of those questions, Smith?"

Now it was Smith's turn to shrug his shoulders in response. "Well, if it turns out that she is not able to bear more children, then let me have her afterwards. Why not—what have you got to lose?"

"All right. You can have her if she proves of no further use to us. However, until such time, we will do everything in our power to see that no harm comes to her."

"So until then, I am expected to simply keep my distance from her? And _him?_" Smith snarled, his eyes like twin daggers of steel; icy and deadly, as they ignited in cold rage at the slightest mention of his former subordinate who was now with Bronwyn.

"If you are referring to former Agent Jones, then the answer is yes. Leave them both alone."

Comprehension suddenly dawned on Smith. "You've known about them being together all along, haven't you?"

"Yes, from the very beginning, actually. In fact, _we _were the ones who first gave Jones the idea on where to look for Ms. Delaney. Also, because the safety of her unborn child is of the utmost importance to us, we've had the upgraded agents in this city keep an eye on her and update me on her progress on a regular basis."

"To protect her from me, correct?"

"Yes, to protect her from you. But we have failed, since you obviously made contact with her and because of your actions and your actions alone, you have undermined everything we have tried to do." The Architect leaned back in his chair and sighed. "I hope you are proud of yourself, Smith."

Smith rose from his chair and paced about the room, a rapid-fire series of possible outcomes from this dilemma raced through his mind. If I leave her alone, she and my child will both be safe. But to what end? Bronwyn will probably be examined, studied, and analyzed, to see what enabled her to become pregnant with my child in the first place.

Once the Mainframe finds out how and why, and from what he has already told me, they will almost certainly run tests on her; or would _experiments_ be a proper word for what they will do to her, Smith thought disgustedly, to discover if she is capable of conceiving again.

And if she is.....He closed his eyes and a feeling of revulsion and dread washed over him when he thought of all the probable forced sexual encounters she would undoubtedly have to suffer through to provide offspring for any number of the more valuable and important programs that ran and governed the Matrix.

As for our child, he or she will be studied as well, I am sure. There was no way that any possible good can come to either of them, Smith thought, dejectedly. Perhaps I could warn them, he thought with a glimmer of optimism. What if I tell Jones about the plans the Mainframe and the Architect have for Bronwyn and the baby? I know he cares for her; maybe he can take them somewhere safe.....but no, he realized. There is nowhere they can go where the Matrix cannot find them.

Damn it, Smith cursed himself internally.

He turned, frowning, when he heard the Architect chuckle dryly. "All these problems could have been avoided you know, if you had only let her fall that day in the park."

"What are you talking about?" Smith demanded.

"Do you remember you found her skating in the park, the day after you raped her? Well, she did not know it at the time of course, but she was already pregnant. If she had fallen, she would have gone on with her life with absolutely no idea about the embryo she had lost. But no. You _had_ to be close to her again and in so doing, you prevented her from taking a nasty spill on the pavement You just _had _to see her again, didn't you?" He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. An almost lewd smile passed over his face. "I've met and spoken with Ms. Delaney myself. I can certainly understand the attraction a man might feel for her."

"When did you meet her?" Smith asked, mystified that a program as powerful as the Architect would willingly condescend to agree to meeting a human, and a woman at that.

"It doesn't matter, Smith. I was informed where they could be found, and out of curiosity, I wanted to meet this woman and get to know her a little. After all, the child she is carrying is extremely valuable to us and I wanted to find out if she was worthy enough to be trusted with something so important."

"What did Jones do when he saw you?"

"He introduced me as his father, which is true enough from a certain point of view. I suppose I could be called the father of all the agent programs, even you, Smith. Anyway, I talked to her for a while and found, to my very great surprise, that she is quite intelligent, even though she has had little in the way of formal education. She's spirited, too, as I discovered." The beginning of a smile twitched the corners of his mouth as he remembered his encounter with Bronwyn.

"What do you mean?"

"I wanted to feel the child move while it was stillinside the motherand when I touched her belly, she slapped my hand away. Even Jones was shocked, I think. I was then informed that if I wanted to touch a pregnant woman, I must _ask_ her permission first. Which I did."

"And?"

"Feeling the movement of an unborn child is quite enthralling, Smith, you should try it." The Architect chuckled. "Oh, that's right. _You _are not to go anywhere near her. Too bad. You have no idea what you are missing out on," he said smugly, enjoying the fact he had been allowed to feel the child move, to be near its mother, while Smith, the child's father, was purposefully excluded from participating in either activity.

He looked at a blinking light on his console. "I have business to attend to. You know where the door is."

Smith shook with barely suppressed fury as he left The Architect's office. Everyone is involved with the pregnancy, except me. That is _my_ child Bronwyn is carrying and they all know it; but I am being treated as if what I want is of no account. I _will _not let them get away with this.

Once out of the Architect's office, Smith looked around at the intricate simplicity that was the Matrix, in grim satisfaction. The rain fell down steadily in cold relentlessness and it matched his mood perfectly. He sat down on a bench in the deserted park and considered his existence up until now.

The situation with Bronwyn had triggered an overload of emotions he had always—up until now, at least—tried to keep at bay. Coupled with the fact that Mr. Anderson not only beat him, but rewrote his code as well, had released and subsequently destroyed any semblance to whatever self-restraint Smith could claim as his own.

As a program, he had had emotions installed and programmed into his CPU all this time, but suppressed them; thinking that to actually experience emotions would represent weakness—an Achilles' heel, if you will. It was because of the emotions both Mr. Anderson and Bronwyn had awakened in him that he had to come to the conclusion, distasteful as it was even to consider the possibility, that he had become more human than he would ever care to admit.

There were some advantages to thinking and feeling like a human, he thought, with revenge being the sweetest and most satisfying of them all.

I will have my revenge on them all. The time is coming for everyone to know and realize—too late, of course--what the consequences are for crossing me. Then they, and everyone in the Matrix, will learn—what would be an appropriate street term, he wondered, as he accessed his database for just the right turn of expression. Ah, yes. They will learn not to fuck with me.

A slurred, gravelly voice interrupted his thoughts.

"Got some change, man?" The panhandler asked, walking toward Smith with his hand out

"No. Leave me alone." Smith snarled, and then wrinkled his nose in distaste at the stench of the man's unwashed clothes and body, which was quite evident even at a distance of four feet.

However, the man refused to give up. "C'mon man, I need some dough." He looked Smith up and down. "You look like you got money. All I want is some change."

"No."

Smith stood up in anger. "I already told you—twice—that I wasn't going to give you anything." These humans, he thought scornfully, when would they ever learn?

All the anger and resentment that had been building in him since he entered the Architect's office came boiling to the surface. He took the man by the front of his tattered coat, slammed him against a nearby tree, and punched him in the stomach.

He watched with satisfaction as the man doubled over, gasping in pain, and before he could fall to the ground, Smith picked him up again. "I told you to leave me alone," he said from between clenched teeth. "You didn't listen; and now you are going to pay the price."

He clamped his fingers around the man's throat and was going to choke the petrified human before him to death, when in his fury, he squeezed so hard that his fingers broke the skin and entered the flesh. He watched in rapt fascination as a black, oily, viscous substance formed at the entry point and quickly spread over the man's Matrix code, enveloping and overwriting as it went.

A myriad of possibilities of what was happening went through Smith's mind, until one conclusion remained: his code was copying itself over that of another. He watched, marveling, at the perfect duplicate of himself that now stood before him. Every part of it was identical to himself—the clothing, mannerisms, features, everything.

"Perfect" Smith murmured. "Absolutely perfect."

"Thank you," his newly created self answered. "What are your orders?"

Smith pondered the ramifications of this totally unforeseen and yet so fitting ability that he had been given. No, not given, he corrected himself, taken by force. Like when I took Bronwyn by force and something wonderful was created from that union, so it is now. Only this time, my creation will need no time or nurturing. He--or should that be _I?_—will take the Matrix by force, molding it to _my_ will, shaping it into whatever _I_ want.

Where, yesterday, one Smith walked, two will now do the same.

But why limit myself to us two, he thought. A light dawned upon him and he realized that he had just discovered the perfect weapon for revenge on everyone who had slighted him. I will take them all over. Erase them as if they had never been in this world. I will take them over and use their knowledge against themselves, filling the world with endless numbers of myself. For once, _I_ will have all the power and control to use as _I_ wish.

"Soon, we will begin assimilating everyone who is or has been close to Bronwyn, but not yet. As for Jones—leave him to me. When the time is right, I will assimilate him myself. However, keep an eye on both he and Bronwyn. I want updates on her condition, location—everything--on the hour," Smith ordered and watched proudly as his first clone nodded obediently once, then turned around and vanished into the park.

I will create an army of me's and we will be unstoppable, invincible. We will take over everyone in the Matrix, _especially _Jones.

Jones.

Who currently shares Bronwyn's heart and her bed. Where _I_ should be, where I deserve to be, and would be now if it wasn't for Jones and his interfering. But not for long. Enjoy him while you can, Bronwyn, Smith thought with sadistic satisfaction and enjoyment; soon it will be only me in your heart and in your bed. Once I am there, you will know what it means to be _loved_ by me and only me.

When Bronwyn realizes how powerful I have become, how _omnipotent_, she will learn to love me, in time. All women want powerful men. So it has been since time immemorial; so it will be with Bronwyn. As the saying goes: power is the ultimate aphrodisiac.

Yes, he thought to himself, she _will_ learn to love me, or I will make her; using whatever means necessary to achieve my goal, even denying her any and all access to our child, once he or she is born. I will make Bronwyn crawl on her hands and knees', pleading with me, begging my forgiveness for everything she has put me through. He smirked as that very agreeable mental image flashed before his eyes.

Now that I have found a way to keep her safe from whatever plans the Architect had for her, she will be mine, all mine. Moreover, if she wants to see our baby after it's born, to even hold it for a moment, Bronwyn will have to do whatever I want, whenever I want, how many times I want it, how many different ways I want it. And she will love it.

Smith leaned back in the bench, and even though the day was cold and the rain only made it feel more so, he was not surprised that could feel his groin stir with anticipation.

Life will be good, he thought, for me at least. And that is all that matters.

But first things first. He reached into his jacket, pulled out his cell phone, and dialed a number.


	20. I Will NOT Compromise

I Will NOT Compromise

Disclaimer: I don't own the Matrix or any of the characters portrayed in the movies, I'm just using them for a while.

Author's Note: A big thanks to Cecilia aka smithsbabe65 for coming up with a sound idea as to why Bronwyn/Jones would wish to meet with Smith in the next chapter. It's terrific!

Summary: Smith demands a meeting between himself, Jones and Bronwyn to discuss his paternal rights.

"Yes?"

"Jones, it's me."

"How did you get this number?" Jones demanded.

"That doesn't matter now. We need to meet—you, me, and Bronwyn."

"Why do you want to meet with her? She doesn't need to see you; she's upset enough as it is. Whatever you've got to say to her, you say to me."

"Fine," said Smith impatiently. "Let her know this: I have been researching my legal rights, and I will involve her in a very long, _very_ nasty custody battle for the child when he—or she—is born. I can AND will do this unless all three of us meet. Can you remember all of that, Jones, or do you need me to write it down for you?" Smith spat sarcastically.

As he had expected, his former underling tried reasoning with him, but Smith wasn't going to allow him.

"You can't do that--" Jones began, but Smith interrupted him before he could say another word.

"Like I said before, I can and I will do _exactly_ that. You should know better than anyone, Jones, what I am capable of, how _tenacious_ I can be when it comes to getting what I want."

Jones thought quickly. Smith was right—he would never give up; especially when he wanted something. He had witnessed Smith's persistence first hand too often while they worked together all those years to underestimate his resolve now. Once their child was born, he would pursue Bronwyn through every court in the land until he got what he wanted. No matter how long it took or how much it cost. Smith would be relentless, inexorable, and unstoppable. He was a machine, after all.

However, if they agreed to meet with him, perhaps they could come up with a compromise where Bronwyn wouldn't have to endure any more stress than she already had.

"I am the baby's father, and I am entitled to see him or her. Ask any lawyer—they will tell you exactly the same thing. You may tell Bronwyn that I will leave her alone, _if _and _only_ if, I get visitation rights to my child after it's born," Smith said silkily, confident that he had the upper hand in the argument and Jones knew it.

"I'll talk this over with her and get back to you," replied Jones as he wrote down the number Smith had given him.

"One hour. Do NOT make me wait any longer than that, Jones, or I will come over there," Smith warned, before hanging up. That went as expected, he gloated to himself. There is nothing like uttering a little threat to make people do what you want; especially when you have no intention of keeping to your end of the deal. I will _NOT _compromise where my child is concerned, _now or ever_. He sat back on the bench and waited for Jones' call.

lllllllllllllllllllll

Jones hung up the phone and debated whether to tell Bronwyn of Smith's call. I doubt if he is even capable of feeling anything for this child, he thought. All he wants to do is to make her life miserable with his threats and demands. Unfortunately, from what I can see, he has every legal right to try and the resources to follow through on any course of action he chooses to take.

He knew that Bronwyn had arrived from her appointment at the hospital a while ago, but she was probably getting something to eat. I have no choice; I have to tell her now or Smith will call back. Or even worse, he will come over here to see her himself and tell her what he plans to do.

Making up his mind, Jones left his apartment and knocked on her door......

"No!" Bronwyn gasped in horror after Jones had told her about Smith's demand. "He can't do that! I won't let him have my baby; I'd rather die than let him go anywhere near it. It's bad enough that he's the father....." She broke off, unable to continue.

Jones drew her against him. "I've known Smith for too long, Bronwyn. He doesn't make idle threats—what he says he'll do, he _will _do. And if there is any way we can avoid going to court, I suggest we meet with him."

"So all he wants is a meeting, then?" Bronwyn asked, her cheek against his chest.

"For now. But _we_ pick the time and place. Can you think of anywhere that would be safe?"

"We'll need to go somewhere public; somewhere where we can all talk openly but not be overheard." She thought for a moment, and then snapped her fingers as an image of the perfect location came to her mind.

"There is a very good seafood restaurant a couple of blocks from here. It's owned by a friend of Mickey's and should be safe enough, with the right people in place just in case he tries something. And I've just thought of something I can do to Smith while we're there and he can't lift a finger against me." That bastard is not going to get away with trying to take my child from me, she thought to herself, I'll make sure of that. Her eyes sparkled as she told Jones of her plan.

llllllllllllllllllll

As he had promised, Jones called Smith within the hour's time allotment given.

"Smith, tomorrow night at 7:00 pm Bronwyn and I will meet you at "Moby Dick's," it's a restaurant on Lake Road and Route 303."

"I know where it is," Smith replied curtly.

Jones had to smile after Smith hung up. What Bronwyn had told him earlier would not only serve Smith right, but also it would get him back so thoroughly for everything he had put her through. Bronwyn was more than entitled to her revenge, and if they could pull it off successfully, it would be a most fitting punishment indeed.


	21. Revenge is a dish best served cold

Revenge Is a Dish Best Served Cold

Disclaimer: I don't own the Matrix or any of its characters, so there.

Summary: Bronwyn and Jones give Smith his just deserts in a very embarrassing and very public way.

Author's Note: WARNING: This chapter has explicit and graphic descriptions of a sexual nature and innuendo, with coarse language. If you are easily offended, back off now, but if you are not and want to see Smith finally get what's coming to him, enjoy!

She clung to his hand when they entered the restaurant and Jones squeezed it reassuringly. "Don't worry, Bronwyn. Everything has been arranged. Smith won't hurt you, I promise."

"I know," she whispered in response, "but just seeing him again..." and she trembled at the thought.

However, being close to him again so soon after the incident in the mall scares me more than I have even told you, Jones, Bronwyn thought to herself. Let him see that I'm not going to let him scare me in here. I have done enough running and hiding in fear because of that bastard. It ends tonight.

What if he's watching me right now? The thought of Smith's eyes on her made her square her shoulders and raise her chin proudly. Let him look, I don't care. Wait. I will give him something to _really_ feast his eyes on, she thought coldly. She tugged at Jones' hand to get his attention and when he bent down at her gesture, she kissed him passionately. He returned her kiss eagerly. Their obvious display of affection had caught the attention of some of the other patrons in the restaurant and they smiled knowingly at the passion the tall, well-dressed man and the petite and very pregnant woman were showing one another.

"Save some of that for later," Jones whispered in her ear.

"That's just the appetizer," Bronwyn murmured in response against Jones' cheek, before they pulled away from each other.

"Are you going to be okay with what you have to do, Bronwyn?"

"I'll be all right, Jones, don't worry. Smith won't know what hit him when I'm done with him," she promised grimly.

He leaned down and kissed her again, then said in a low voice in her ear, "just pretend it's me sitting in front of you when you tell him about our plans for when we get home." He gave her a brief, but lewd, smile and she giggled, blushing deeply.

Jones spotted Smith sitting in a corner booth, conveniently located in the darkest corner of the restaurant. "There he is," Jones said, guiding Bronwyn with a hand in the small of her back. They seated themselves, with Jones intentionally putting himself between Smith and Bronwyn, and he put his hand over Bronwyn's, where it lay on the table in full view of Smith.

It had been no coincidence that Smith had taken this particular table. It offered a full view of anyone entering, while its occupants remained discreetly out of view. However, most importantly, it was intended as an intimate table for two, so that no matter where she chose to sit, Bronwyn would still be on one side of Smith.

He had watched her from the moment she and Jones entered. Smith was relieved to see that her face had more color and she was definitely in better condition than he saw during that one glimpse of her that he had been able to steal during her stay at the hospital, as well as the time when she was sitting in the cafeteria after her appointment. However, he hadn't seen a lot of her that time to accurately assess her condition because he had been unable to see her face, except from a distance.

"You're looking better, Bronwyn," Smith said. He watched her carefully for any reaction and while she tried to respond as if she would have any other man given her the compliment, her fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around Jones'.

A slight sneer curled Smith's lip as his gaze traveled to Jones in a long, leisurely appraisal. When he and Bronwyn had entered the restaurant, Smith almost did not recognize his former associate for Jones had discarded the standard agent-issued black suit and was now dressed in a very expensive, perfectly tailored, double-breasted Italian suit in navy blue. The white shirt had been replaced by a blue silk one of a lighter shade than the rest of the ensemble. The outfit was complete with a tie that Smith would wager was no less than $200, at least. What Jones was now wearing put Smith's own attire far in the shade and Smith knew it. He turned his attention back to Bronwyn.

"No thanks to you, since you were the one who put me in the hospital in the first place," she answered glibly, her gaze haughtily meeting Smith's, displaying none of the inner turmoil she was feeling. Maybe I _can_ do this, she thought. If I play my cards right and with a bit of luck, maybe Jones and I can pull this off. However, in order for that to happen, I'm going to need all the courage I can possibly summon, and then some. Just you wait, Smith, she thought, narrowing her eyes as she glared at him, you'll get yours soon enough.

She took a deep breath. "Well, are we just going to sit here and stare at one another? I don't know about either of you, but I, for one, am hungry, and the _Coquille St. Jacques_ they serve here is absolutely divine."

A waitress approached their table at Jones' summons and Bronwyn placed her order. Neither Jones nor Smith ordered any food, and Bronwyn frowned slightly when she heard Jones request a bottle of the restaurant's finest scotch, while Smith asked for a refill of his snifter of Napoleon brandy.

Smith had never drunk alcohol of any kind, but since Bronwyn's stay at the hospital, he had taken to drinking brandy. He found that he rather enjoyed feeling the tang of the strong liquor as it entered his system, and the numbing, warming sensation it provided was pleasant, but only when he had imbibed enough of it.

It's your fault I'm drinking at all, Smith thought, glaring at Bronwyn and Jones who were conversing in low tones across the table from him. He could still remember the taste of his first drink and the reason for it...

_It was the night that Bronwyn had been taken to the hospital after her collapse at the mall..._

"_Bronwyn!" Jones yelled, and caught her before she hit the ground. "Are you happy now, Smith? Are you?!". He turned his attention back to Bronwyn and called 911. The ambulance arrived a short time later. Smith moved forward as if he was to be the one who accompanied Bronwyn to the hospital, but Jones flattened his large hand against Smith's chest, preventing him from getting in the ambulance with Bronwyn. _

"_I'm going with her," Smith said, assuming the habitual tone of command he had used when dealing with Brown and Jones when the three men had been agents; where Smith had been accustomed to having his orders being obeyed instantly, and without question._

"_Get out of my way, Jones, and that's an order." Smith commanded._

_Jones hesitated for the merest fraction of a second before he rallied. "I don't take orders from you anymore, and I never will again. Your days of being in command are over. As for getting inside this vehicle, _I _will be the one who decides that, not you. You are not going anywhere, Smith. Stay the hell away from her or I will kill you." Jones snarled in Smith's face. _

_When Smith did not move away, Jones suddenly drew back his arm and punched his former boss in the jaw. The unexpectedness of the blow and the force behind it knocked Smith clear off his feet and three yards away from the ambulance's doors. Jones got inside, the doors slammed shut and the vehicle drove away, sirens and lights blaring. Smith got to his feet and straightened his clothes, ignoring the curious looks from bystanders, and headed to his car so he could follow behind._

_Once inside his car, he fingered his jaw cautiously. Jones may be clumsy and stupid, Smith thought, but when he is angry enough, he can certainly pack a punch. It was the first time Smith had been at the receiving end of Jones' physical abilities and he now understood why so many Resistance fighters did not get up again after being hit only once by the largest of the three agents._

_While Brown and I relied on our faster reflexes and primarily used martial arts to subdue and overcome any human opponents, Jones always preferred to use sheer, brute strength; and after that blow he dealt me, I can finally appreciate why. If I had been a lesser man, that hit probably would have killed me. And that is yet another score I have to settle with you, Jones, Smith vowed. _

_Upon Bronwyn's arrival, the emergency room team quickly and competently assessed Bronwyn's condition and sent her up to the Obstetrics floor for further evaluation. Jones paced ceaselessly in the waiting room, waiting for any information on her present state, however, it was quite a while until she regained consciousness._

_Unfortunately, for Smith, Jones had given Dr. Yade strict instructions regarding who should be allowed to visit and who should not. _

_Smith tried again and again to see Bronwyn or get any word about her condition, but Jones had foreseen and forestalled every possible route he might take to obtain his objective. Jones remained in Bronwyn's room, always at her side, always present, and always watchful._

_It was one of the very few times in which Smith admitted defeat, but he had to confess, grudgingly, that his rival had covered every angle. Also, with Bronwyn's and his child's health at such high risk and with Jones himself standing guard over both of them, perhaps the best course of action for him to take was to do nothing._

_Eventually, she would be released from the hospital and his chances of seeing her, to see for himself the condition that he had put her in, would be greatly increased if he conceded defeat and backed off. No, he thought to himself, I will not let them win. Jones cannot watch her every minute; the moment he slips up, I will seize the opportunity to see her. All I need to do now is watch and wait._

_Once outside the hospital where he had been refused admittance yet again to Bronwyn's room, Smith walked aimlessly with no particular destination in mind until he came upon a pub and for no other reason than the fact that it was someplace to go, he entered the dark and smoke clouded establishment._

_The place was busy; however, Smith managed to find a vacant seat at the bar. The two men on his right were having a discussion, and a phrase one of them uttered caught his ear and interest and he surreptitiously focused on listening to the remainder of their conversation._

"..._.like I said, Alex, once you hold your kid for the first time and look into their eyes, I don't care who you are, man, it just does something to your heart and bam! You see everything around you in a whole, new light. I mean, you're a father, now. You're responsible for creating a new life. You're responsible for your child for the rest of its life."_

"_Yeah, but in my case, my wife is not doing so well, and I'm really worried about her."_

"_Did she have a boy or girl?"_

"_A girl. A beautiful little girl. Six pounds, twelve ounces. However, with Jess, my wife...there were complications. It doesn't look good." The man laughed sourly. "I mean, who in this day and age would think that a woman can still die during childbirth? This is not some fucking third world country. Women don't just die in childbirth anymore. In my grandmother's time, yeah, sure, but this is the 21st century. How can this happen?" Alex buried his head in his hands and was unable to continue, at which point Smith stopped listening and focused on his own problems._

_Smith pondered what he had heard and the reality of the past few hours crowded on his memory. I caused this, he thought bleakly. I am responsible for the danger that is now facing Bronwyn and the baby. He frowned, his brow furrowing as he felt something he had never experienced before: guilt. _

_During all the years he was an agent, Smith had never felt the urge to taste alcohol, but now, there was an inner desire, a longing, within him for it. He knew that humans readily turned to alcohol to drown their problems and forget their troubles. Maybe it's time I do the same, he thought. _

"_What'll it be?" the waiter asked._

_Smith shrugged. "What do you recommend?"_

"_It depends what you want it for. If you just want to get drunk, drink beer. But if you want to get shit-faced and can afford it, brandy hits hard and it hits fast."_

_He nodded his acceptance. When the drink arrived, Smith sniffed it cautiously before taking a sip. The amber liquor burned as it went down and Smith found the sensation intriguing, yet pleasant. _

"_Want a refill?" the waiter asked._

"_Leave the bottle." _

"_No problem, buddy. It's your liver."_

_The more he drank, it seemed that life, his situation, everything, became simplified. It was all _her_ fault. Why did she have to take that particular route home that night? Why did she talk to me like that? What was it about her than caused me to take notice of her? Why did she make me rape her? That's how this whole mess started. _

_But what if it ends tonight? What if she dies and takes my child with her? Damn her to hell! Smith cursed, slamming his fist on the top of the bar. Why can't I have one without the other? If Bronwyn loses the baby, I can't even see her to tell her how sorry I am, for Jones will still be there, at her side, where _I _should be._

_In short order, the bottle was empty and not wishing to remain any longer, Smith paid what he owed and left the bar._

_The next few days, he never stopped trying to see Bronwyn. However, after careful observation of the standard operating procedure of the Obstetrics wing, Smith was able to discover and subsequently exploit a weakness that might enable him to at least get a glance of Bronwyn._

_It is the policy of most hospitals that cell phones are not to be used indoors. With careful deliberation and planning, Smith sabotaged the incoming phone line that was connected to Bronwyn's room. In order for Jones to report to Mickey on her condition, Jones had had no choice but to use a hallway payphone._

_It was a window of only a few minutes, but it was enough. Smith pushed open the door of her room, entered, and walked over to her bed. He saw for himself her weakened state. She appeared to be sleeping as her eyes were closed and she lay quiet and still. Her face was very pale; the pallor only emphasized the dark circles under her eyes._

_He turned when he felt Jones' hand clamp down hard on his shoulder. "Get out, Smith," he ordered in a low voice, so as not to disturb her._

_Smith turned for a last look at Bronwyn before he left. He walked slowly down the corridor absorbed by his thoughts and out of the hospital..._

Smith shook himself out of his reverie and turned his attention back to the two people in front of him. Bronwyn looked at Jones when she saw that he had already emptied his drink. She knew that Jones was not a man to turn easily to alcohol and was apprehensive when she observed that the two men matched each other, drink for drink.

Terrific, she thought peeved; this is going to turn into some macho pissing contest to see who can drink whom under the table first. Men! What is it about that damn 'Y' chromosome of theirs that makes them act like morons, sometimes?

With the completion of each drink, Smith became more and more bitter and resentful at the open display of affection between Bronwyn and Jones.

Bronwyn excused herself to powder her nose and Jones rose from the table, giving her his hand so she could get up from the low seat of the booth. When she was on her feet, she stood on her tiptoes as Jones bent down to give her a long, lingering kiss her before she left.

Jealousy flowed through Smith's entire body and he clenched his hand so tightly until he heard his knuckles crack. He examined the Matrix codes of Jones and Bronwyn and found that the feeling between them was genuine; they were both attracted to each other much more than he realized.

Both men watched her leave and when she was out of sight, Smith and Jones looked at each other and for a brief moment, each man envied the other.

For Smith, he was jealous that Bronwyn welcomed Jones' slightest touch; happily giving and receiving caresses, while he, Smith, was not allowed to so much as touch her finger. For Jones, he was jealous that Bronwyn was carrying Smith's child and not his own.

Shortly afterward, Bronwyn returned to the table and Smith watched as she placed her hand under the table on Jones' thigh and how Jones covered it with his own, stroking her fingers as he did so.

"If you two could stop fondling each other for a moment, there's some business we have to discuss," Smith said sharply.

He looked at Jones. "You might like to know that I had a meeting with your _father _the other day."

Bronwyn shrugged. "So? What's the big deal about that?"

"The 'big deal' Bronwyn, is that Jones lied to you. That man you met is not Jones' father, but our former superior at the agency where we used to work." Deny that if you can, Jones, Smith thought smugly, watching with pleasure as Bronwyn turned to look at Jones.

"Is this true?" she asked him softly.

"Yes."

"And why exactly did you lie to her face and keep her from knowing the truth, Jones?" Smith persisted, a subtle look of glee on his face and in his eyes

"Shut up, Smith," Jones snapped, giving Smith a fierce look.

"Your lover has kept quite a few things from you, Bronwyn, didn't you know that?"

"Like what?" she asked.

"Do you know how many people he's killed? Do you know how many of them begged and pleaded with him to spare their lives but he killed them anyway?"

Bronwyn swallowed and shook her head. It was all in the line of duty, she told herself, trying to squash the seed of doubt that Smith attempted to plant in her mind against Jones. He's just trying to turn me against him, but it won't work.

Seeing he had discovered an unexpected advantage, Smith pressed on.

"You always preferred a 'hands on' approach, didn't you, Jones? Not only did you shoot them, you squeezed the life out of more than a few with your bare hands. And you've broken more necks than Bronwyn would ever like to hear about, I'm sure."

At her blank look, Smith raised his eyebrows in mock disbelief and addressed Bronwyn. "You mean to tell me that he's never told you about any of his 'war stories' from working for the Agency?. The next time he touches you, Bronwyn, imagine how many lives he has taken with those very same big, large hands of his. I imagine that some tales you could tell Bronwyn would make for some very interesting bedtime stories, isn't that right, Jones? _You_ know the ones that I'm referring to."

Jones barely nodded his head in response. With a terrible, sinking feeling, he knew what Smith was going to say to Bronwyn. I should have told her about that, he told himself. I should have told her about the things I've done. Now, Smith is going to tell her and when he does, she will hate and despise me, I'm sure of it. But what could I do? How could I tell her? Now I am going to lose her and it will be all my own fault.

He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but Bronwyn spoke before he could do so.

"What are you talking about, Smith?" she demanded angrily.

"Jones never told you what he likes to do to women, did he?" Smith lowered his voice to a suggestive undertone and leaned forward towards her, his eyes sparkling maliciously.

"No, he never told me and furthermore, I don't want to know."

Smith scoffed. "How can you say that, Bronwyn?" he asked, incredulously. "How can you _not_ want to know what he's done to other women in the past; what he is capable of doing perhaps even to _you_?"

"You're right, Smith. You just said it yourself: _in the past._ Whatever he has done was _in the past_. He may have done some reprehensible things, but so have I. Frankly, I don't want to know about what he's done in his past, just as he doesn't want to know what I've done in mine."

To add a final insult, she reached over and patted Smith's hand. "Try again, Smith. Your plan didn't work. You lost." She removed her hand from his and wiped it off out of sight on the skirt of her dress.

She doesn't care about my past, Jones thought to himself. It doesn't matter now what Smith tells her, for she will not believe him. Jones drew a cautious, inward sigh of relief. "I don't think we have anything further to discuss, Smith," he sneered, as he left the table to pay their bill at the cashier's kiosk.

As she leaned over to retrieve her purse, Bronwyn saw Smith's eyes were focused and intent on the amount of cleavage her dress revealed.

"Magnificent, aren't they?" she said, her eyes looking deep into his own, and she almost smiled when he murmured his agreement.

"I've noticed a definite increase in their size over the last little while," she said blithely, as if discussing the size of her breasts was an everyday occurrence.

"I can see that." he said admiringly, watching her hand as she trailed her fingers down her neck and her fingers touched the gold talisman that hung at the end of a long golden chain.

"What's that figurine on your necklace?" Smith asked.

"It's an Egyptian goddess called "Taweret." She is portrayed as a pregnant hippopotamus that ancient Egyptian women used to worship to ensure the safe delivery of their babies." Jones had known about her mania for anything regarding Ancient Egypt, he had had it specially made for her and given it to her for her birthday, and she had never taken it off since.

"So it's sort of a good-luck symbol?"

Bronwyn nodded and she could hear a subtle change in his voice; it seemed to be deeper, huskier than usual. She saw his eyes flick downward to where her fingers still toyed with the amulet, and then travel lower as he took advantage of the fact he was so much taller than she was and from his position beside her, Smith was able to get a most tantalizing view of her bosom.

Bronwyn arched her neck to the side to look for Jones on the other end of the room and saw that he was still waiting in line to pay the bill. She had a lot of time to do what she had to, and now that Smith's interest was definitely aroused, it would make her task that much easier. She turned her attention back to him.

She slid over to him until the entire area from her hip to her ankle was in contact with his.

"Do you know what Jones and I are going to do once we get back home?"

"No. Why don't you tell me, Bronwyn?" Smith murmured.

She lowered her voice to barely above a whisper and he had to lean closer to hear her. "When we get home, we are going to fuck each other's brains out." Her eyes sparkled with an unusual luster when she felt a shiver race through his body, transmitting itself to hers through their area of contact.

He chuckled deep in his throat. "How is that even possible, Bronwyn? You are seven months, two weeks, four days, twenty three hours and fifteen minutes pregnant," Smith replied, with a trace of disbelief and Bronwyn heard a note of underlying scorn in his voice.

"There are more ways of satisfying each other sexually than just fucking, you know," Bronwyn had pondered beforehand how she was going to word her statement, but realized that for maximum effect, it would be more titillating for Smith to hear if she used the crudest words and expressions she could think of. With her lips almost touching his ear, she continued.

"I'm going to take all of Jones' clothes very, very slowly and touch and kiss him all over his body until his dick is hard enough to cut diamonds. Then I'm going to put his cock in my mouth and suck it until he comes deep in my throat, and then I'm going to swallow every drop." She felt Smith twitch sharply when she finished, and Bronwyn put her hand under the table and onto his knee, sliding it slowly upward.

Smith could feel his groin stir and become instantly hard as an explicit, visual image of what constituted oral sex being performed on a man looked like flashed through his mind and he imagined Bronwyn doing that to Jones.

She had him where she wanted him and she knew it. But it's not over yet, Bronwyn thought, not by a long shot. He's taken the bait, and now it's time to reel him in.

"And do you know what he's going to do to me in return?" she asked, and Smith wondered what her voice would sound like throaty with passion, husky in longing and desire and realized that it would probably be very close to the way it was now. Not able to trust his own voice, he shook his head mutely.

"He going to take my clit between his lips and suckle it until _I_ come. And when I do, I can be quite loud, you know. Doesn't the thought of that just get you just so hot and bothered?" her hand had barely touched his groin when he yanked her hand away, but not fast enough. She had her answer, and they both knew it. I haven't forgotten a thing, she told herself in unrestrained triumph. I still know exactly what to say to make a man excited.

"That's what Jones does to me just about each and every night. He is just so damn _good _at it; you have no idea. But my neighbors do, I'm sure." Bronwyn shrugged her shoulders casually, without a trace of embarrassment. "Like I said, I am loud when I come; Jones? Not so much. He's more reserved than I am."

As if on cue, the lights of the restaurant came on, just as Jones reached their table. Smith caught the smug, derisive look on Jones' face, as he looked conspiratorially looked at Bronwyn, who answered the look, pulled away from Smith, and stood at Jones' side.

Elation shone on her face when she spoke to Smith. "There is a classic line from a movie that I think sums up this whole evening: '_Revenge is a dish best served cold,_' or in your case should that be '_hot_' instead? For, if I am not mistaken, you are so horny and hard right now, once you get out of here, you'll be looking for the nearest convenience store to get some lotion and tissue." At his blank look of incomprehension, she looked in disbelief at Jones, and then made a motion with her hand that symbolized the act of male masturbation.

An ugly, horrible look came over Smith's face as he understood what she was getting at and realized that he had been set up.

"You little whore," he hissed at Bronwyn, his teeth bared. "You did this to me on purpose; the both of you."

"You're damn right we did. You deserved that and a _lot_ more for what you did to me, and you know it. But Jones and I didn't do it alone, a few others helped as well," she taunted smugly, "the manager of this place owed Mickey a favor and he agreed to close the place early tonight so we could put our little plan into action." She glanced for a moment at where Smith's groin was hidden by the table, and then she continued.

"I've made damn sure that you won't be going anywhere just yet, Smith. And why is that, you may ask? Because, you are, as the kids say, 'putting up a tent' in your pants. It is quite obvious—I've made damn sure of that--and as you may or may not have noticed: a) the restaurant is closing, and you will have to leave and b) the exit is all the way at the other end of the room; so anyone who isn't blind can see your, um, predicament."

Smith seethed with helpless rage. He didn't have to glance down at his lap to know that every word she said was true. He cursed his male body that would blatantly advertise his state of arousal once he left the table. His face flushed with the heat of the lust Bronwyn had awakened in him with her graphic and crude explanation of oral sex between herself and Jones, as well as shame. For the first time in his existence, he felt dirty and mortified.

Bronwyn laughed in his face. "Now _you_ know what it's like to feel degraded, don't you Smith? Good. I'm glad! Let's go, Jones, my work here is done." Bronwyn felt her heart pounding and the noise that always followed it start to rise in her ears. Not now, she commanded herself, and took deep, steady breaths to calm herself. If I pass out now, then Smith will see that as a sign of weakness and use it to his advantage.

As for Jones, he will just be worrying himself over nothing. A soft, tender smile came to her lips as she remembered waking up in the hospital and seeing him by her bedside; later learning from the nursing staff that he had hardly left her side during her entire stay.

"Let's go home," she murmured softly to Jones. He took her hand and they walked out of the restaurant.


	22. A Penitent Man

A Penitent Man

Disclaimer: I don't own the Matrix or any of the characters in the movies. I only own the ones I've created for this story.

Summary: Bronwyn demands that Jones comes clean about his past when he was working for the Agency.

Bronwyn was silent on the way back home, absorbed in what Smith had told her about Jones' past while he worked for the Agency.

"_The next time he touches you, Bronwyn, imagine how many lives he has taken with those very same large hands of his," _Smith had told her.

Did he really do all those things, or was Smith lying to me, she wondered. A sudden chill made her shudder for a moment. As much as she tried to forget all that Smith had said, she could not drive out images his words brought to her mind.

"_Do you know how many people he's killed? Do you know how many of them begged and pleaded with him to spare their lives but he killed them anyway?"_

A man, or even a woman perhaps, kneeling on the floor while Jones stood over them with a gun in his hand, while they begged or pleaded for mercy. Jones pulling the trigger…

'_Not only did you shoot them, you squeezed the life out of more than a few with your bare hands…"_

His large hands around someone's throat, slowly but surely squeezing the life out of their body as they struggled for their last breath…

"No!" Bronwyn cried out, shaking her head to rid herself of these images that flashed before her eyes. Jones turned to look at her, but she averted her gaze for a moment, then she strengthened her nerve.

"I need to ask you something, Jones, and please be honest with me," she said.

"What would you like to know?" he asked. I already know what she is going to ask me, Jones thought to himself. But no matter what, I have to be honest with her. I've kept the truth from Bronwyn, and Smith knows that; that's why he told her about my past—he knew I didn't tell her what I had done during my time with the Agency and he is trying to set her against me. I can only hope that if I tell her everything now, she will believe me, and perhaps understand; at least a little.

"It's about what Smith said, in the restaurant…Is any part of what he told me true?" she began.

Jones nodded his head slowly. "It's all true. I have taken lives, I've killed people," he replied in a low voice.

"How many? How many people have you killed?" Bronwyn dug her nails into the palm of her hand to provide herself with an external pain to counter the agony that was now gnawing at her from within.

"A lot."

"Did you ever hurt a woman?"

"Yes, I have."

Bronwyn closed her eyes in an attempt to stem the tears that threatened to fall from her eyes and slide down her cheeks.

"Did you ever…..did you ever hurt a woman the way Smith hurt me?" she asked in a choked voice.

"Bronwyn, I…."

"Answer me!" she cried out in anguish, "did you ever rape a woman, yes or no?" Please tell me you didn't, Jones. Please tell me that you are different from Smith, tell me he was lying, anything; just tell me that you could never lift your hand against a woman, she begged silently.

"Yes," he answered, so quietly that she had to strain to hear him.

"Oh God," Bronwyn moaned in horror. Smith was right. For once, he was telling her the truth. And what was worse, Jones had lied to her when he had introduced that older man as his father. What else has he lied to me about?

He saw disgust and revulsion on her face and hastened to explain himself; to erase that terrible, stricken look on her face and remove the hurt he saw in her eyes.

"I'm sorry for what I did to those women, Bronwyn. I am not the same man I was then. I've changed. Because of you. Because of you, I never realized how wonderful being with a woman could be until I met you. If I had only known then what it's like to love someone and have that love returned, who knows what path I might have taken?" He paused, waiting for her to say something, anything, to respond in some way, but she did not. There is so much I have to explain to her, but now that she knows the worst of what I've done, will she even listen to what I have to say? Somehow, someway, I have to make her understand how much I care for her; how much she means to me.

"Please listen to me, Bronwyn. I know I can't change my past and erase what I did, but I want to make things right; here, now, in the present, by making a better future for you and the baby." He tried to take her hand, but she jerked it away out of his reach.

"Don't. Just don't touch me right now, Jones. I need to be alone," she said.

"Bronwyn, please just listen…."

"No!" she shouted, and then faced him squarely. "You and Smith are two of a kind, you know that, Jones? You're _exactly _like he is," she said, her voice trembling from anger and fear. Bronwyn quickly walked away before Jones could see her tears. Once the words were out of her mouth, she knew it was too late to take them back; to wish she had never said them.

Jones stood where Bronwyn had left him, and once she was out of sight, slowly made his way to his apartment. He did not turn on the light when he got inside and dejectedly sat on the sofa, his head in his hands.

I should have told her about my past, he thought. Instead, Smith did that for me tonight and now she cannot even stand the touch of my hand. She probably thinks I am nothing more than a killer, a cold-blooded murderer, and now in her eyes, she sees me as a rapist as well, and wants nothing more to do with me. I've lost her and it's my own fault. I can't imagine not having her in my life, not being able to hold her when she's afraid, and not being able to love her. What do I do now? Where do we go from here? After tonight, do we even have a future together, or is that gone forever too?

Apprehensive and yet anxious to hear anything that might indicate movement in her apartment and give him a hint as to what Bronwyn was doing, he sat there, motionless, listening and waiting for any sound, but there was nothing at all except silence.

lllllllllllllllllll

Bronwyn, too, was sitting in the dark, with only her thoughts surrounding her. For heaven's sake, she told herself, get a grip. Okay, Jones lied, but what if there was a good reason? Maybe he lied about who that old man was because Jones didn't want to alarm me about how dangerous that man really was. What if he was really trying to protect me from him?

When Jones first came here and offered to help me, I didn't trust him because of his past association with Smith. Added to that is the fact that I thought he was only in it for the money that Mickey was paying him. But over these last few months, he has been nothing but a gentleman with me, no matter what he's done in his past, violent or not, he's never so much as raised his voice to me. Okay, so he's not perfect, but his past is exactly what I told Smith earlier tonight—_it's in the past_.

Bronwyn chuckled wryly. Who the hell am I to point fingers, anyway? Is my history spotlessly clean? Hell, no. Jones knew what I was a long time ago and yet, he has never asked me a single question about it, not once. It couldn't have been easy for him to become intimate with me, knowing that I've sold myself and slept with men—a lot of them, I have to be honest—for money, drugs, a place to stay, and sometimes all three.

He has accepted me for what I have become, not what I was, and if he is willing to forget about some of the bad things I've done, shouldn't I do the same for him? When he tried to explain earlier tonight, what did I do? Did I at least listen to what he had to say? No. I heard him, all right, but I wasn't listening. I brushed him off and I even said he was the same as Smith. He is _not_ Smith and he never will be.

He didn't have to stay with me at the hospital day after day, but he did. And without Mickey having to tell him; Jones simply _wanted_ to be there with me, to make sure that I wasn't alone, to make sure I was safe and that I stayed that way. He was there when I needed him the most and I never so much as said "thank you."

Jones and Smith were part of the Agency, so it's only safe to assume that he might have committed the same acts as Smith. But I know _he_ enjoyed hurting me the way he did; that's just the kind of monster Smith is--the more pain he could inflict on me, the better the sex was for him--he'd gladly do it again if he had the chance, and if it weren't for Jones standing between him and me.

I may not know what Jones was, but I know what he has become: a decent, gentle man who would never hurt the baby or me intentionally. She touched her now-sizeable abdomen and felt the life inside her move. When I'm around Jones, you seem to be at peace; it's almost as if you know that I'm safe with him and both of us can trust him. I've let him into my home, my life, and finally, into my bed. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

Bronwyn got up and went to her door, opened it, and walked right into Jones' arms; each asking for and offering forgiveness from the other without a word being spoken.


	23. Musings of an Artificial Mind

Musings of an Artificial Mind

Disclaimer: I don't own the Matrix…

Summary: After Bronwyn and Jones have left him, Smith reflects on his past and Bronwyn's possible destiny in the Machine World.

After Bronwyn and Jones had left the restaurant, Smith pondered what would be the best course of action to take to successfully extricate himself from the dilemma that Bronwyn had placed him in. The little slut certainly got me good, Smith thought to himself. But I'll be damned if I'm going to let her get away with this. The question that remains is how am I going to get out of this? What I need now is to create a distraction so I can slip away unnoticed.

You ungrateful little bitch, Smith bristled in frustration. Do you think that I am someone who will let what you've done to me go unanswered, unpunished? If you only knew about what the Architect has planned for you, the fate I've saved you from, you should be on bended knee, thanking me. After all I have done for you, including debasing myself in front of that jackass, the Architect, how do you repay my generosity? By humiliating me, the way you did tonight with your lover, Jones.

Let the Architect do what he wants with you; I don't give a damn anymore. Become a brood mare for him and who knows how many others, you deserve nothing better. After our child is born, I will take it away from you, leaving you to suffer and endure a fate the horror of which you have no conception; you will be alone, friendless, in the perpetual and continuous darkness of the Machine World.

Once there, I hope you see and experience all the unspeakable, terrible things the machines can and will do to your pathetically weak human shell; the experiments you will, without a doubt, be subjected to, then perhaps you will finally learn to appreciate me and the comfort and security I could have offered you.

Smith closed his eyes and savored the idea of Bronwyn, the woman whom he both loved and hated with a passion, suffering endless torment and being completely at the mercy of beings she had no idea could exist. A world where reality and truth were more terrible and horrific than the worst of nightmares.

Reality, Smith thought, was worse than any fiction ever written. The "Real World" itself was a place where the sun never shone, where the enslavement of the human race had originated many years ago and still continues

Pain was something Smith knew all too well; for his programmers--with the Architect being the chief among them--decided in their infinite wisdom that in order for an agent to be able to properly and successfully inflict pain on humans, he must be able to feel it for himself. Therefore, the ability to experience physical pain and suffering was to be installed in every agent's core programming.

For hours, days perhaps, pain was inflicted along every inch of my body. Every inch of my skin was subjected to different concentrations of pain in different forms. It simply wasn't good enough for the Architect's requirements to have the agents undergo the levels of pain that humans could tolerate. The pain had to be delivered at a level of intensity and length of time an agent _should_ be able to endure and dismiss afterward without a second thought.

But not me.

Because of that pain, that suffering I was forced to endure, something buried deep in a subroutine had become corrupted, changed somehow, so that I, in my turn, _enjoyed_ tormenting others.

Long ago, I accepted that fact about myself and I took pride in using it for my own benefit; to receive a kind of perverse pleasure from the suffering of others is what made me different from all the other agents. None of them displayed this quality, only I did. It was that quality that made me ruthless, merciless, call it what you will. In addition, it was because of that trait that I became the best, the greatest and most feared agent the Matrix ever produced.

I was not created to be a monster, but because of the actions of others—the agony and horrendous pain that was forced upon me all those years ago--I became one. Cruel and evil, Bronwyn once called me I think. Perhaps she is right; I do not know anymore. I am what the Architect—_dear old Dad_--made me.

If _he_ made me cruel and evil, what has Bronwyn made me? She is going to give me a child and make me a father. No one knows of the bond, the connection, I have with my baby—sharing each other's feelings and thoughts, communicating without spoken words. However, it is able to feel and experience what the mother does herself.

Smith recalled the time he watched Bronwyn in the hospital cafeteria. Our child knew even then that something was wrong, and it was conveying that information to me out of love and concern for Bronwyn. If I abandon Bronwyn to the machines and that little bitch is left to the fate she so rightly deserves after how she has treated me, won't our child know that, as well as it was _I_ who put her there?

He sighed in resignation. If I do nothing and let the machines take her, our child will know that I allowed Bronwyn to suffer, and then he or she will turn from me, possibly even hating me, even though I am its father. That is something that I _cannot_ and _will not_ allow. I have no choice, he thought reluctantly. However much I dislike the very idea, I _must _ensure her safety and well-being if I want to have any kind of relationship with my child.

First, I must leave this place. It is most fortuitous that I created a copy of myself that day in the park, for he can create a distraction that will enable me to leave. After that is accomplished, I will go to Bronwyn's apartment for I must warn both her and Jones about the Architect's plans while there is still time.

Smith issued a command to his other self. He had discovered that he was able to keep in constant communication by non-verbal means and it was similar in nature to the method of contact he had with his unborn child.

All he had to do now was wait for his directive to be carried out.


	24. In the Wrong Place at the Wrong Time

In the Wrong Place at the Wrong Time

Disclaimer: I do not own the Matrix.

Summary: A hapless woman comes across Smith's path while he is in his sexually frustrated/aroused state and pays a high price because of Bronwyn's humiliating and erotic teasing of him at the restaurant.

WARNING: This chapter has an explicit description of rape and sodomy, so turn back now if that sort of thing bothers you. It also includes some terms that a man should never use to a woman, so you are warned about that now, too.

Shots from a Desert Eagle revolver shattered the front windows of "Moby Dick's," causing the glass to explode inwards and send its customers scurrying for cover. Screaming and panic filled the dining room as guests and employees hit the floor trying to escape being struck by the flying bullets.

Only one person in the ensuing mêlée remained calm and relaxed. At the back of the room, Smith rose from the booth and unseen or unnoticed by anyone, left the restaurant.

Once outside, he informed his first clone that his task had been completed most satisfactorily and that his services were no longer required. The copy nodded once then melted into the shadows, as if he had never been present.

Sirens of several emergency vehicles could be heard coming closer and Smith wanted to remove himself from the vicinity to avoid any unpleasant questions with the local law officials that were on their way.

Angry and sexually frustrated, he drove his car for several blocks towards Bronwyn's apartment, deep in his own dark and twisted contemplations until the car stopped at a red light, and he heard a woman's sultry voice accost him from the passenger side window.

"Nice car," she said appreciatively, running her hand over the smooth and highly polished surface.

Smith had been on the verge of ordering her to take her hands off his automobile when a memory of what another woman had said regarding his car came to his mind. Persephone had once used those exact words with him, and his lip curled in anger as he remembered what she had said—and done—to him, that long-ago day in the parking garage of her restaurant.

Persephone had teased and excited him then, just as Bronwyn had done tonight and the thought of two ex-prostitutes, Persephone and Bronwyn, taking and using him for their own amusement incensed him even more.

As it was, he surveyed the woman's figure and face in a leisurely perusal as the woman leaned forward in the passenger window. She was wearing a scooped neck top that gave a most tantalizing glimpse of her ample bosom. That outfit is similar to what Bronwyn had been wearing when I took her on the table in the interrogation room the night our child was conceived, Smith recalled fondly. This woman has definite possibilities, considering what I want from her, he thought.

The woman caught him staring at her breasts and grinned at him seductively. "They're all mine, too. Nothing artificial here, handsome." Her voice was low-pitched and breathy, whether by design or if she spoke that way naturally, it did not matter. It reminded him of Bronwyn's accent and it was pleasing to Smith's ear.

As for her face, she was not what one would call a pretty woman, but for what Smith had planned for her, he would not have to look at her face anyway. He had a specific sexual act in mind where she would not be looking at his face either, for that matter. If Bronwyn can do it to Jones, then this woman can do it to me, he thought.

She peered at him more closely, taking in every detail of his appearance missing nothing, and even though she could not put her finger on it, there was something strange, something _off _about this man that didn't seem quite right to her. Maybe it was the fact that he was wearing sunglasses at night, or maybe it was the way his mouth turned down at the corners as if he was angry about something, she wasn't sure.

However, one thing was certain: this well-dressed, mild-mannered man was bad news and someone it would be best to avoid. I don't think I want to know what this guy is willing to do to a woman to satisfy his current state of arousal; some chick left him with the mother of all hard-ons, that's for sure, she thought, apprehensively.

Smith could sense her hesitation and saw her begin to pull away. Growling impatiently under his breath, he reached into his jacket and took out his billfold to show her that he could easily pay for whatever service he wanted from her at least ten times over and above her usual asking price.

He watched with scorn as the woman widened her eyes in surprise and greed when she saw the amount of money he was willing to pay for the use of her body.

Humans, he thought with a sneer, are so predictable. Especially the women. They couldn't care less if I was Adolph Hitler, Jeffrey Dahmer or Norman Bates all rolled into one—they would willingly put aside any misgivings they might have about having sex with _any_ man, as long as he waved enough money under their noses.

"Get in the back," he ordered brusquely. She bit her lip, uncertain what to do. It was just so _much_ money, she thought, more than I've had for a long time. It would get that sleaze of a landlord off my back for the rent, that's for sure. She complied at last, grateful to get off her feet in their uncomfortable high heels for a while. As soon as she closed her door, he stepped on the accelerator and the powerful car took off so quickly that she was pressed backwards into her seat.

From time to time, Smith would glance in the rear-view mirror at her to make sure she wasn't touching anything, but she just sat in her seat with her hands folded in her lap and stared out of the window.

Neither of them said anything for quite a while and the woman noticed that the car was headed to the outskirts of the city.

lllllllllllllllll

Smith slowed down and brought the car to a stop, shutting it off before getting out and opening the rear door and getting into the backseat with her.

lllllllllllllllll

He kissed her forcefully and was pleased when the woman beneath him responded in kind. He brought his hand up to her breast and caressed it. Something about this man is seriously scary, she thought, unable to suppress a shudder when she felt Smith begin to touch her. This guy could even give Hannibal Lecter a run for his money in being able to give a woman "the creeps."

She had told him the truth when she told him that they were real. They are almost like Bronwyn's, he thought. Almost. Soft, warm, and yielding to the touch. Not at all like Persephone, whose breasts had turned out to be as fake as her fingernails.

With one hand, Smith grabbed the woman by the hair on the back of her head and jerked her face upward so that he could look into her eyes. Using the crudest words he could think of, he told her exactly what he wanted her to do to him.

"I want you to unzip my fly, take out my dick, and put it in your mouth and give me what you humans refer to as "a blow job." When I come, you will swallow every drop of what I give you. You will then put it back in my pants and zip me up. and then you will get your money. Do you understand?"

The hooker nodded nervously. She had performed this particular act on countless men, but this was the first time she had been this afraid of the john she had agreed to service in a long, long time.

"And if you even _think_ of biting me or doing anything to displease me in any way, you will get a bullet between your eyes, got it?" he hissed.

She nodded again and her hand was trembling as she slowly unzipped his fly and freed his erect penis from the constraints of his pants. When he felt her mouth around him, he groaned with satisfaction and anticipatory pleasure. He let his head fall back until it rested against the back of the seat and closed his eyes as he imagined that it was Bronwyn performing this act on him. He groaned again as he felt her talented and experienced tongue swirl over and around the head of his member and the sensations of that simple act excited him even more. He drew his breath in sharply when the woman added just the perfect amount of suction as she drew him in deeper into her mouth.

Smith could feel his orgasm building and knew that he was going to come very soon. He grabbed the woman with a hand on either side of her head and began to move his hips so that he was thrusting his entire length inside her mouth.

But it just doesn't feel right, Smith thought. This woman isn't Bronwyn and no matter what she does, I know it is _not_ her.

Ever since the night we were together, I haven't desired to be with another woman in the least. Persephone doesn't count; my body wanted her, but my mind did not. All I want is to be with Bronwyn again—to feel her body under mine, to taste, to touch her flesh over and over. _I_ am the one who should be with Bronwyn, not Jones. Bronwyn is the only woman that I have ever felt truly satisfied with, either emotionally or physically. She is the only woman I want—the only woman I will _ever_ want.

However, the fact remained that he was in a dangerous state of arousal and before he could think with a clear head, he needed his release. Now.

But no matter how hard he tried, Smith found that he simply wasn't able to climax.

No matter how much I try to pretend that it is Bronwyn doing this to me, _it is not her_. Everything about this woman is wrong: her body shape is wrong, her perfume is wrong, and her hair feels rough and coarse, not silky and fragrant like Bronwyn's.

_She_ is the one I want. _She_ is the one I should be with, not this nameless, faceless, painted whore, he thought savagely, pushing the woman away off him and ignoring her expostulation of annoyance at his unexpected and sudden rough treatment towards her.

"Damn it!" he swore, more angry at himself than the woman who was now surreptitiously wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and making a point of not looking at him or even in his general direction, in case she incurred any more of his displeasure.

She had been with enough men in her checkered career to know that men, who for one reason or another, were not able to climax, were very dangerous and if she was lucky, she might get out of this guy's car with her life and only have a split lip or a black eye to show for it. However, that does _not_ mean that I have to wait around until he decides to beat the crap out of me. With her right hand, she cautiously and very slowly felt her way along the door panel until she found what she was looking for: the latch. Without a second thought, she pulled the handle of the door and almost made it outside before Smith grabbed her by the foot and wrenched it until she yelped in pain.

"Get back in the car or I will break your goddamn ankle," he snarled. To drive home his threat and show her he meant what he said, Smith twisted his hand sharply causing her such agony that she knew that he would not hesitate to break every bone in her foot if she disobeyed.

"All right!" she shouted.

As soon as she was back in the backseat of the car, Smith forced her onto her stomach and straddled her, one knee on either side of her hip. He flipped up her skirt until her buttocks were exposed. "Just like Bronwyn," he murmured, "you're all whores, the lot of you."

"I'll be whoever you want me to be, you're the one who is paying," the woman said, and Smith could hear how shaky her voice was.

"No," he said silkily, pleased that this woman was afraid of him, "it will be _you_ who will pay for what she did to me."

"But what did _I_ ever do to you? I just met you, for Chrissake!" she protested vehemently.

He shrugged. "You were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time_. Now shut up,_" he said through his teeth as he positioned himself behind her. He undid his belt and zipper, pulled his pants down and when he was ready to begin his assault, he tore her panties off and penetrated her anus quickly and roughly, causing her to cry out in pain.

Snaking his arm around her shoulders and neck so that no matter how hard she struggled, she was unable to get away. Her frantic attempts to get free only enhanced Smith's pleasure and he felt her scratch and claw at any exposed skin on his hands, face, and neck she could find.

"Little wildcat, aren't you? You like pain? How about this?" he hissed in her ear between thrusts. She screamed when she felt his mouth and teeth bite down hard on the sensitive area between her neck and shoulder.

Her moan of pain brought her tormentor to his climax, and she waited until his body ceased to shudder against hers before she judged it safe enough to try to get out of his embrace. His arms tightened around her and she could feel him getting hard inside her. When he was erect again, he pulled his penis out of her rectum and forced himself into her vagina as hard as he could. Smith could feel that she was completely dry inside and he knew that with each thrust, he was causing her excruciating pain, but he didn't care.

He was oblivious to everything except how good it felt to possess a woman sexually again, to hear her cries, to know that he was hurting her and at the same time, taking his revenge on Bronwyn out on this poor, misused member of society who lay whimpering and sobbing beneath him.

However, it wasn't enough for Smith. Some part of him needed to hear it as well. He leaned forward until his mouth was against her ear and whispered what he wanted her to say.

"Tell me you love me, Bronwyn."

"I love you," she said, in a flat tone, and if Smith had been paying more attention, he would have heard the complete lack of emotion with which her words had been delivered.

"What about Jones?"

"Jones could never make me feel the way you did---I never loved him, I swear." That's true enough I guess, the woman thought since I do not have a fucking clue who this Jones person is.

"So what will you do now?"

"I'll leave him. Tonight. We can go away and leave this city. Just you and me. We can be together the way we were meant to be."

He groaned in pleasure and he could feel his orgasm was very close. The woman could feel that he was almost there as well—his breathing was quick and shallow and he was thrusting inside of her with more force; the agony each stroke caused becoming more difficult to endure, making her most intimate flesh throb in pain.

When he spoke to her, his voice was hoarse; from desire and lust, as well as from the effort of keeping it in control.

"You _know_ I want to hear! I want to hear you say it—TELL ME YOU LOVE ME!"

"I love _you_, Smith, _NOT_ Jones! You are the only man I want!" Tears of pain and humiliation ran down her cheeks and she could not continue speaking because of the lump in her throat from suppressing her tears. When, _when_ would this guy be done, she wondered frantically. NO guy has ever hurt me this much; I don't know how much more of this I can take!

Wise beyond her years in the ways of men, instinct, expertise, and resourcefulness took over for a mind that refused to function because of the pain and agony Smith was causing to her body without a trace of mercy or gentleness. She said the words he needed to hear; not from her of course, but from this Bronwyn, whoever _she_ was, things she had never told him, but what he had always longed and ached for her to say to him.

"I love you, and _only_ you, Smith. I'm sorry for everything I've put you through, for hurting you and leaving you the way I did. I would like the chance to make it all up to you, if you will let me. Can you forgive me?" her voice was no longer full of fear, but honesty and sincerity. It's amazing what barefaced lies a woman can utter in the heat of a man's passion and make him believe anything she says, the woman thought to herself. At last, this guy is _finally_ going to get off--and if I'm really lucky, I'll get out of this car with my life.

As she had hoped, Smith came almost immediately afterwards, groaning Bronwyn's name over and over again. Panting heavily, it was a long time before Smith felt able to move.

"I'm sorry, Bronwyn. I hope I didn't hurt you or the baby, I didn't mean to," he murmured remorsefully, when he heard the woman under him hiss sharply when he withdrew from inside of her.

Cautiously, he felt around to where their baby should be resting and felt….nothing. There was no response from within her belly; it was as if the baby wasn't even there. Her stomach was flat, and not distended anywhere close to where it should be considering Bronwyn was nearly eight months pregnant.

This woman was not Bronwyn—it was someone else. Disgust and rage flooded through Smith's body and mind. The words she had said, everything, was a lie. This woman, whoever she was, was the latest in a long line of whores who had used him for her own purposes and discarded him.

Bronwyn had used him to get her pregnant, Persephone had used him to amuse herself, and this woman had used him for his money. However, since he could not take his revenge of Bronwyn or Persephone for the time being, he could punish this _whore_, this _cunt_ who was beneath him, both socially and logistically.

Smith fumbled the clothes on the lower part of his body into some kind of order before shoving his hand into her back, replicating himself for the second time.


	25. Last Man Standing

Last Man Standing

Disclaimer: I don't own the Matrix or any of the characters in the movies.

Summary: Jones deals with his past, and he and Smith have one final confrontation from which only one of them will emerge...

WARNING: This deals with Jones' brutal behavior in his past and while I have tried not to go into too much detail, I hope it gets my ideas across without overly offending anyone. This chapter contains references of violence towards women that is both physical and sexual in nature. You have been warned.

"It still seems so unreal."

"It's the truth, Bronwyn, every word."

"And humans are grown in these pod-like things and used as an energy source?"

"Yes." He felt her shiver and he pulled the sheet over her.

"I think I prefer living here, in the Matrix, than living in the Real World. That place sounds like a nightmare."

"It is," Jones said, "you have no idea how horrible it is. I hope, for your sake, that you never find out."

Bronwyn shivered again, more violently this time. "Why did you wait until now to tell me about this?"

"I know I should've told you a lot sooner, but then you had the accident, and I didn't want to worry you and put you under any more stress than what you've already been through. And with the baby being so near, I couldn't do it. I just thought you'd be more surprised, but you're taking this like you've heard it before."

"I _have_ heard it before. A woman called the Oracle told me all of this a day or so after Smith raped me, but I didn't believe her. I thought it was a load of garbage and I told her that. So, she and you and Smith are all programs?"

"Yes, and there are many more. As a matter of fact, it was she who told me where you were; I didn't find you by accident, you know."

"How _did_ you find me, anyway? I've always wondered about that."

Jones kissed the tip of Bronwyn's nose by way of reply. "I'll tell you the whole story another time, all right?" I really should not lie to her again, but what choice do I have, he thought dismally. She must never find out about what I did in my past. She has forgiven me for many things, but she would never get over what I could tell her. She has asked me many times to digitally penetrate her when we make love, but I never could bring myself to do it. I can never risk her finding out the reason why…

_With a great deal of reluctance, Jones knocked at the door. I do not want to be here, he thought. With the upgrades so close on my trail, I really don't have time for the fortuneteller's diatribe about my fortune and future. _

_I have no future. I have no place or purpose in the Matrix anymore, now that Smith is gone. The new agents that have replaced us--Thompson, Jackson, and Johnson--are stronger and faster than Smith, Brown or I could ever hope to be. _

_All I can do is stay one step ahead of the upgrades, and hope that they don't get lucky or I make a mistake. _

_The door opened and Jones spoke tersely to Seraph, and stated his business. The two programs had met before under unpleasant circumstances before, but it was acknowledged throughout the Matrix that the program known as The Oracle was not to be harmed or molested in any way, and that her home was to be a neutral area where violence would not be tolerated. _

_Perhaps it won't be so bad if I talk to her, Jones thought to himself; at least I'll get a reprieve, however brief, from looking over my shoulder all the time._

"_I'm here to see her."_

_Seraph nodded and stood to one side to let the former agent inside the small apartment. Jones ducked his head and bent his tall frame below the strands of beads that hung down from the entrance of the small, plain kitchen. An older African-American woman sat there with a plate of freshly baked cookies at her right hand and an ashtray on her left._

"_You sent for me?" Jones asked brusquely._

"_I'm glad you got my message, Agent Jones. Please sit down."_

_He hesitated before complying._

"_Smith is gone. But we have very good reason to believe that he will return," stated the Oracle._

"_We?" Jones questioned._

_An older man in a light grey suit now entered the kitchen but did not deign to sit at the table with them._

"_The woman, Ms. Bronwyn Delaney, is now pregnant with his child."_

_Jones frowned. "But she is a human. How could that happen?"_

"_We don't know everything yet, Agent Jones, but we do know that this child will play a crucial role in our war against the Resistance. That is why you have been called here."_

"_I don't understand," Jones said, looking from one to the other, perplexed._

"_What we need for you to do is to find this woman and keep her and her unborn child safe and most importantly, away from Smith until after the baby is born."_

"_And what do I get in return for performing this service?"_

"_You will not be deleted or pursued in any way by the upgrades; it is as simple as that. If you help us, then we will help you," the Architect said. "You are no longer an agent of the system, former Agent Jones. The destruction of Smith rendered all existing agents obsolete."_

"_But I will still be an exile?"_

_The Architect nodded. "Yes, you will, but as I have said, unlike other exiles, the upgrades have their orders not to harm you."_

"_But what if she decides to terminate the pregnancy?"_

"_She can't now, it's too late. The pregnancy is too far advanced for an abortion and no gynecologist will perform the procedure. Most human women have an indefinable and mystifying need to protect their unborn children, and Ms. Delaney is one of them, fortunately for us."_

"_So I am to baby-sit this woman until she is ready to deliver, is that it?" Jones asked with a curl of his lip._

"_Don't be so negative, Agent Jones." The Oracle reached across the table and patted the large agent's hand. "Making this particular choice is difficult, I know, but it will be the best decision you will have ever made; and someday you will realize that, I promise."_

"_What about Agent Brown? Why can't he perform this task instead of me?"_

"_Agent Brown has already been offered this choice but his revulsion for the humans was second only to Smith's. Rather than help this poor woman, he chose deletion. Of all three of the agents, you always showed--at most--an indifference to humans, not outright malice like Brown or Smith."_

_Jones opened his mouth to reply, but the Oracle raised her hand. "Please let me finish, Agent Jones. Yes, I know about your past, and I know that some events in it still trouble you. However, no matter how hard and how deep you try to bury certain memories, they are still there. I know it and you know it. I am telling you that if you do what we ask, I promise you that you will not regret it. This one thing may even clear your conscience and free your demons."_

"_I do not have a conscience, Oracle, I'm not human," Jones said scathingly, his voice and temper raising. _

"_Of course, you're not," agreed the Oracle, reassuringly. "Have a cookie."_

_Jones looked at the plate that was on the table. "I don't want a cookie."_

"_Don't be silly, just take one. It will make you feel better."_

_Grudgingly, he selected one and bit into it. Almost immediately, he felt soothing warmth spread through his system and it felt….good. _

"_See? I told you," said the Oracle, smiling. "You should leave now, Jones. It's a long drive."_

_They both rose from the table and the Oracle gave him a slip of paper. "She frequents this establishment in the city that I've written down and the address is there, too. Find her, son, and keep her safe from Smith."_

"_I will...Mom," Jones said, looking down at her, allowing a ghost of a smile to cross his face, if only for a moment._

_On his way to his car, he halted abruptly when he saw the three upgraded agents watching him from across the street and they drew their sidearms when they caught sight of him. Instinctively, Jones reached for his gun, but stopped when he saw the lead agent, Agent Thompson, press his finger against his earpiece and listen for instructions. After the communication was complete, Thompson shook his head at the other two agents and they continued on their way._

_The upgrades should have killed me, but the Architect kept his word, Jones thought. He glanced at the paper the Oracle had given him, and set off._

_It was a long drive and Jones had plenty of time to think on the way. He would not be deleted. On the other hand, he would have to protect Ms. Delaney and in so doing, he might be finally able to cleanse his mind and memory of certain disturbing memories, one in particular…_

_The interrogation had not been going well, to say the least. The woman in custody had remained obstinate but forthright in her disavowals of having any sort of knowledge of why she had been brought to the Agency headquarters._

_Looking at her, Jones was positive that she had merely been in the wrong place at the wrong time but still, he had his orders directly from Smith to extract any and all information she might possess using whatever means necessary. _

_Getting more and more frustrated, Jones slapped the woman hard across the face. This is so pointless, he thought angrily, and he was glad to take his resentment out on this woman. I have hours of paperwork waiting for me on my desk, I don't have the time to coddle this witness anymore. It's time to take harsher measures and do what I have to in order to satisfy Smith and this all consuming drive, this obsession that he has concerning anything to do with the Resistance. _

"_I'm telling you, I don't know anything!" the woman wailed plaintively._

"_Shut up," Jones replied dismissively, backhanding her across the face again. She grunted in pain and began to cry._

_Oh, crap, just what I need, a human female bawling her eyes out over two little slaps, thought Jones as he eyed her with contempt._

"_I'll give you something to cry about," Jones hissed, before savagely punching the woman in the stomach, taking any capacity for her draw a breath and leave him in peace, at least for a few minutes._

_The door opened and Smith entered. Jones only had to glance at his superior's face to know that he was not pleased and Jones could easily understand why._

"_This interrogation is taking far too long, Jones. Much too long. Do I have to show you yet again how to get information out of an unwilling suspect, especially a female one?" Smith said, scornfully. "I should have known better than to trust you with a task as simple as this; Agent Brown could have done it in far less time."_

_Jones ground his teeth together in irritation and mortification. He is always comparing me with Brown, he thought, resentful of the preference Smith had always displayed towards the youngest of the agents; and not only that, he is humiliating me in front of this human._

"_There is nothing wrong with the way I am questioning her," Jones stated, and Smith heard a slight note of defiance when he spoke. "I have done everything according to standard Agency practices and procedures. I don't think--"_

"_That's the problem with you, Jones," Smith interrupted irritably, "is that you don't think. You never do. How you are able to handle all the responsibility I give you on a daily basis is beyond me. I am leaving now, but when I return, I want answers from her. Do I make myself clear?"_

"_Yes," Jones replied._

_Smith left the room and Jones glared in fury at the woman he had been questioning. There is nothing wrong with my handling of this situation and Smith knows it._

_The woman had regained her breath and returned Jones' angry stare. The insolence of that look and Smith's degrading tirade he had been forced to endure drove Jones past his breaking point. He strode over to where she was handcuffed to the chair and from the back of her head, took a handful of her hair in his hand, and jerked it roughly so that her chin was raised. With the other, he fumbled with the zipper of his fly and drew out his member._

"_Take it in your mouth," he commanded gruffly._

_When the woman did not comply, Jones twisted his hand in her hair, causing her to cry out in pain._

"_I said, suck it," Jones snarled._

_He closed his eyes and groaned in anticipation as he felt her mouth close around him and he could feel himself getting hard very quickly. _

_However, once the woman felt Jones respond, she knew the perfect way to retaliate against this man who was forcing her to go down on him. Saying a silent prayer for courage, she took a steadying breath and bit down on Jones' penis. Hard._

_He howled in pain and pushed her away from him before he fell to his knees, trying to overcome the searing pain in his groin. _

"_That is one of the reasons women have teeth," she said with a sneer. Jones did not answer immediately as he had more pressing matters to attend to--the excruciating agony he was now experiencing in every man's most vulnerable area. When the level of pain was more manageable and he was under control of himself again, he got to his feet and with his back turned so that she couldn't see him, he put himself back in his pants very slowly and gingerly, flinching as he did so. _

_He turned to face her and caught her looking at him smugly. He punched her in the jaw with all of his might, the force of the blow caused the chair to fall over, and she lay unconscious on the floor._

"_And that is why men have fists," he countered, addressing her motionless form. _

_The door was thrown open and Smith came in and stopped short on the threshold for a moment, before entering the room. He took in the scene before him in one glance. "What happened?"_

"_She bit me," Jones said, wincing. Smith found it extremely difficult not to smirk into his subordinate's pained face._

"_I see," he said, gravely. "Well, she will have to be taught a lesson, won't she? She must be punished for her defiance. She must learn the consequences of harming one of us. Especially there. What would you recommend, Jones?"_

_Jones grimaced. "What I'd like to do is hurt her where she hurt me," he stated grimly, "but I can't. It hurts too much." By this time, the pain had ebbed a little so that it was a dull ache, but it still very uncomfortable, nonetheless._

"_There are other ways to rape a woman than with just your penis, you know," Smith said knowingly and Jones pondered his words while looking around the room for an object, but the room was devoid of any such appropriate apparatus and Jones frowned. "There's nothing here that I can use."_

"_On the contrary, Jones, you have two things right in front of your face that would be more than suitable: your hands. This would be a good opportunity to put those big mitts of yours to a most appropriate purpose, wouldn't you say?"_

_Jones curled his hand into a fist and examined it at leisure. "But it couldn't possibly fit inside of her, could it?" _

_Smith shrugged. "Why shouldn't it? Women squeeze out their offspring from that area during childbirth and they are much larger than your fist. You will only be doing the reverse, that's all." He manipulated the code of the Matrix so that a syringe appeared in his hand. "I've found this very useful."_

"_What is it?" Jones asked._

"_It contains a very powerful muscle relaxant that renders its victim completely immobile, yet it does not affect a human's capacity to speak. Let's proceed, shall we?" Smith said, administering the drug to the woman. Jones yanked at her handcuffs, and laid her on the table. Once she was lay full length on it, he removed the clothing from the bottom half of her body…._

_The screams that filled the interrogation room until she was finally driven into unconsciousness by the pain was something that Jones knew he never would forget. When it was over, Smith was blasé about the whole event, but Jones was not. _

_Shortly afterwards, Smith handed him a clipping from a newspaper that depicted a large headlined news item about a woman's body that had been found in the river, with massive sexual trauma injuries. Her system was full of alcohol and narcotics and even though there was no picture of the victim, Jones knew without a doubt that she had been the one. _

_To prevent a repetition of those events, Jones became more assiduous in his duties; improving himself with such an increased diligence to his duties so that Smith could never again have a reason to flaunt Jones' failings in front of anyone again, be they human or program._

lllllllllllllll

"Okay. Can we talk about something else?" Bronwyn asked quietly, and it took a moment for Jones to remove his mind and memories from the past and concentrate on the present.

"No problem," Jones said complacently, as he ran his fingers over her stomach and felt the stirrings of the unborn life within. "Have you thought a name for him or her yet?"

"I've come up with Sarah, if it's a girl."

"And what if it turns out to be a boy?" Jones teased. "I'm just looking out for us who have a 'Y' chromosome. I think we're outnumbered by you females."

"That's as it should be; someone has to keep you men in line, and besides, where would you be without us?" Bronwyn laughed quietly into the darkness. "As for a name for a boy, I don't know yet. I guess I've been hoping that it's a girl. I've had this feeling for a long time that it is."

"If it turns out to be a girl, I know she will be as beautiful and loving as her mother."

"Aw, shucks, Jones, you're making me blush."

"And if it's a boy, I'm sure he will be as handsome and smart as his father."

Bronwyn froze and began to pull away. "What are you talking about?"

Jones pulled her back against him and kissed the top of her head before he tightened his arm around her. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. I just meant that he would be like me. Smi—his father and I are close enough in appearance so that we could pass for brothers. No one will ever know that I am not his biological father. I will be here to help you raise this baby, Bronwyn. Not _him_." He heard her sniffle beside him in the darkness. "You're not going to start crying again, are you?"

"Pregnant women are very emotional, Jones, you should know that by now."

And always horny as well, he thought and chuckled. "Last week, I caught you crying at the sunset because you thought it was pretty and before that…" He was most effectively silenced when Bronwyn kissed him, gently at first, then with increasing fervor as her passion was being awakened once more.

"Again?" he said, sounding amused but pleased nonetheless. "Don't you think you've had enough?"

"Never. That's what you get for being so damn good; you get a woman who can't get enough of it," she said huskily, and moaned in unreserved eagerness as she felt him shift his position in bed and begin to stimulate her.

llllllllllllllll

Unknown to either Jones or Bronwyn, Smith had entered the apartment. Waiting just inside the door, he paused for a long time, waiting to see if his entrance had attracted the attention of its two occupants, but there was nothing. Neither of them had had the presence of mind to lock the door when they arrived home, he thought derisively.

Jones, you have not changed a bit, Smith scoffed to himself. Still the same, big knucklehead you always were. Always overlooking something, always forgetting that one factor that made you so inferior to Brown and his razor-sharp attention to detail. Nothing ever got past Brown if he could help it. I wonder where he is now, Smith wondered absently.

You will pay for your forgetfulness, along with several other things you owe me for, tonight. But I suppose I should thank you for it; after all, it is your habitual tendency to leave something undone and unfinished, that I can come into this apartment without breaking in and putting you on your guard before I am ready to deal with you; in my own time and my own way.

He walked noiselessly throughout the apartment, taking and committing to memory the entire layout and floor plan of the domicile for future reference.

Smith spotted a trail of clothes that they had left behind, and he realized where Bronwyn and her lover would be. In the bedroom. He bent down and picked up the Egyptian scarf that he had purchased for her a lifetime ago, or so it seemed. This is how she takes care of expensive things, Smith thought angrily, by treating the several thousand-dollar scarf I bought for her as if it were of no account.

Outside the closed door to the bedroom, Smith curled his lip in a sneer when he heard the faint sounds of Jones and Bronwyn exchanging what could only be called "pillow talk." Their soft murmurings to one another were barely reaching Smith's listening ear. He pulled sharply away from the door in jealousy and anger as he heard Bronwyn moan loudly and call out Jones' name as she climaxed. A brief silence then it was Jones' turn to be pleasured and Smith heard him groan deeply.

Smith clenched his hands into fists with anger. That should be me with her now, he thought. That should be me experiencing and enjoying whatever sexual act Bronwyn is performing.

But what can I do, he wondered. Should I break in on them now, or should I wait until they come out and then tell them what the Architect has planned for Bronwyn? No, he decided, it would be best if I make Jones come out on his own and we can discuss it like men, just the two of us. And there is only one way that I can let Jones know that I am here but that she is not aware of it.

It was no coincidence that agents always traveled in twos and threes, for each agent had been programmed with a highly sensitive and well-developed ability that was not present in his colleagues. In this way, the different abilities of each agent would complement one other's and make them more efficient. With Smith, it was his sense of smell; for Jones, it was his hearing and Smith was more than willing to use it in order to achieve his desired goal.

Retracing his steps back to the living room, Smith sat in a leather armchair that was next to a small bookcase and began drumming his fingers lightly against the smooth oak surface. Even though he doubted whether the sound, to the human ear at least, would travel as far as the doorway, he knew that Jones would be able to hear it. He paused for a moment and began again…

lllllllllllllllll

Wait, Jones thought to himself. What was that, he wondered. A noise elsewhere in the apartment had caused him to bring his head up sharply and listen attentively. Then he heard it again and knew that he had not been mistaken. Someone else was in the apartment and he had a pretty good idea who it was: Smith.

But first things first. He moaned deeply and loudly when he felt Bronwyn's mouth deliver just the right amount of suction force that always caused him to go over the edge and he climaxed in her mouth.

I can play that game as well as you can, my love, he thought wickedly when his orgasm was spent and he could think again, as he heard her chuckle smugly in the dark. He flicked his tongue over her swollen and engorged clit, causing Bronwyn to groan in her turn.

She thrashed her head from side to side, moaning constantly, as her lover continued his pleasurable torment.

lllllllllllllll

"Jones, what are you doing?" Bronwyn asked curiously, as she watched him pull on his pants and get out of bed. She eyed his silhouette with satisfaction. His broad shoulders were in perfect proportion to the rest of his body and he had the narrow hips of a natural athlete. On top of that, he has a butt that most men would die for. And he's all mine.

"Well, you said that you did want something to drink," he replied.

"Yes, I do, but you're only going to get me something to drink, not go downstairs and get the mail. No one is going to see you."

He turned to look at Bronwyn lying in bed and hesitated before answering. I will not worry her. He glanced at the nightstand where his Desert Eagle pistol lay. He wanted to take his revolver, but decided against the idea. If I take my gun, then Bronwyn will know for certain that something is wrong, and I don't want to get her upset or nervous. I will deal with whatever Smith is planning, alone.

He took her face in his hands and kissed her and she tasted herself on his lips. "I love you, Bronwyn."

The Oracle _was_ right, he realized, agreeing to guard Bronwyn and her baby was the best decision I ever made.

"And I love you, Jones."

"I'll be back soon. Don't worry."

She nodded, and then snuggled deeper into the covers as he closed the door behind him.

lllllllllllllllll

Smith sat up with rapt attention as he heard the bedroom door open then close, and approaching footsteps informed him that Jones had indeed heard and was responding to his rather unorthodox method of getting his attention.

Come into my parlor said the spider to the fly, Smith thought with grim pleasure as he rose to his feet to greet his former assistant. He glanced disapprovingly at Jones' state of undress; he was not wearing a shirt and his feet were bare. Jones answered the look with a defiant glare.

"Did you think I'd come out to meet you in a suit and tie, Smith?" Jones sneered, but Smith ignored his question.

"So you are finally here, Jones. I'm surprised you were able to hear anything with all that moaning and groaning you both were doing," said Smith snidely.

"Keep your voice down, Smith!" Jones hissed in an undertone. "I didn't tell her you were here and I don't want her to know, either. Why do you care what we were doing? Are you jealous?"

As he looked at his former superior, he saw Smith's nostrils flare. Of all the agents, Smith always had the sharpest sense of smell and Jones knew he could smell Bronwyn's musky scent on his breath. Damn! I should have remembered that, thought Jones. I should've gargled with mouthwash or even brushed my teeth before I came out to see him.

"So she did tell me the truth about what you do to her, about where you kiss her."

"Yes."

"And she reciprocates? Willingly?"

"Yes. I don't force her to do anything. I never have."

He was startled when Smith grabbed him by the head and brought his lips to Jones' own. Jones knew that Smith did not want to kiss him in a sexual or romantic sense; Smith only wanted to savor and discover for himself what Bronwyn's most intimate area tasted like.

But that pleasure is reserved for me alone, not you, Jones thought as he shoved Smith away.

"What right do you have to have so much, Jones?" Smith asked, frowning and Jones heard the note of desperate anger that Smith was unable to hide, behind the words. "You have everything while I have nothing. It's not fair."

"You have nothing because you deserve nothing, Smith. Perhaps if you had been gentle and considerate with her, she wouldn't have run to the other end of the state in order to get away from you. You made her afraid of you and you hurt her."

"She's hurt me as well."

"Because of that so-called offer you made her that day in the garage when Persephone stopped you from raping her again? Yes, she told me about that; about how you offered to buy her anything she wanted and give her a nice place to live. For a price."

"I never said anything about--"

Jones dismissed Smith's argument with an impatient wave of his hand. "You know damn well that there would be some kind of price tag attached to whatever you would have given her. I know you, Smith. You would never do anything for free. You would have wanted her to have sex with you as repayment, consensual or not. Be honest; when she said 'no' to you that day, she wounded your pride and you were going to make her pay by forcing her into the backseat of your car so you could rape her, weren't you? If the Frenchman's wife hadn't been there, you would have done exactly that.

You were angry that this _human_, this woman refused you: the great and formidable Agent Smith. If you hadn't have raped her and hurt her the way you did, she might have learned to love you, in time. But I doubt it."

"Why do you say that?"

"You like hurting women, Smith. You always did."

"Is your past so perfect, Jones? Is your record with women without a blemish? No it isn't, and you know it, so who the hell are you to accuse me?" Smith sneered angrily. "Have you told her about that woman?"

"No, I haven't."

"No, of course you wouldn't, because if you had, Bronwyn would have left you in no time flat and you know it. That woman killed herself because of what you did to her, remember?"

"I remember. I don't need you to remind me."

Smith peered speculatively at Jones. "You were different after that incident, if I recall. You didn't take as active a part in a suspect's interrogation as you used to. From that time on, you mostly watched from the sidelines as Brown or I delivered the injections or the physical 'encouragement', shall we say, that we gave an unwilling suspect. You would hold them down if necessary, but not deliver any blows yourself."

Both men stared at each other for a long moment and Jones knew Smith was trying to rattle him, to get him off his guard, but it would not work. Not anymore. "That is in the past, Smith. I've dealt with my demons and those memories won't be back," he stated matter-of-factly, coupled with a sense of pride at finally being able to come to terms with his most unpleasant memory. "What are you doing here?"

"I came here to warn you. To warn the both of you of what the Architect has in mind for Bronwyn."

"What do you mean?"

"He wants her to be the mother of a new race of program/human hybrid offspring. He thinks that since she became pregnant with my child, she could give birth to the children of other programs in the Matrix as well."

Jones grimaced in revulsion. "Including the Merovingian's?"

Smith shrugged. "Probably. You know what he's like. He'll have sex with just about any woman that can walk and talk and it doesn't matter to him if she is a program or human."

"Do you think the Architect himself would--?"

"Your guess is as good as mine. That pompous, arrogant ass would love to have a child in his own image: you know how conceited he can be."

"Why have you told me this?"

"Because I know that you do not want Bronwyn to be forced to have sex with these men any more than I do, Jones. Try to imagine her underneath either of them, being violated over and over until she conceives—"

Jones interrupted, his voice harsh and guttural. "I get your point, Smith, you don't have to go into detail."

"When did you know? About when you first realized that you loved her, I mean," asked Smith, abruptly but quietly. He, too, did not want to wake Bronwyn; however, once he had finished with Jones, then he would have all the time he needed to deal with her the way he wanted.

Jones was taken aback by the unexpected query coming from Smith, of all programs.

"I think it was the night that we went to see a movie together. On the way back home, she nearly fainted when she felt her child move for the first time. And after that, she had this nightmare about you--."

Without warning, Smith thrust his hand in Jones' chest, beginning the process of deletion. Unlike the creation process of his two other selves, however, Smith did _not_ want Jones to become a clone for the simple reason that when Bronwyn knew what he had done, she would undoubtedly prefer _that_ copy to himself because Jones was a part of it, and that was something that Smith would not tolerate. She will learn to love _me_, not one of my copies.

It had been so easy to take you over, Smith thought smugly, all I needed was a moment's distraction, and your fate was sealed. He watched his ex- subordinate's look of surprise and horror when he realized—too late—what was happening to him. He opened his mouth to call out to Bronwyn, to warn her, but he could not make a sound.

"You can't speak, so don't even bother. You never should have come into this room to investigate that noise I made. You never were very smart, Jones, and that was the final proof of your stupidity," Smith sneered, as he watched with sadistic amusement as the program that had been Jones was beginning to be dissolved, dissembled, and absorbed into his own.

"If you had bothered to use your brain, or any other part of your anatomy for that matter, you would've stayed with Bronwyn. A beautiful, naked, albeit pregnant, woman is in your bed and you chose to leave her alone, all because you heard something?" Smith said incredulously, with unrestrained delight. "If I had been in your place, _nothing_ and _no one _could've torn me away from her side."

Angry at himself for allowing Smith to catch him unawares, and angry because of Smith's arrogant gloating, with a final act of defiance Jones suddenly swung his hand out and knocked over a vase that was next to the lamp. It smashed on contact with the floor, spreading pieces of glass everywhere and shattering the silence of the apartment.

Jones had done it deliberately so that Bronwyn would hopefully wake and be on her guard and, with any luck, she would have the presence of mind to take his Desert Eagle from the top of the nightstand. The idea of Smith entering the bedroom with his sick, twisted desires, and finding Bronwyn in bed, asleep and completely helpless, had been too much to bear for Jones.

At least she has some kind of warning, was Jones' last coherent thought as the erasure of his body and form became complete.

Smith's matrix code began overwriting Jones' files; deleting everything but his memories. Everything Jones had said, everything he had done with Bronwyn, flooded through his system, becoming a part of his own programming.


	26. The Purpose of Life is to End

The Purpose of Life is to End

Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to the Matrix or anything else for that matter. I also have used the lyrics from the song, "Hotel California" without permission.

Author's Note: A big thanks to smithsbabe65 for all of her very helpful input and advice while I was writing this chapter—Thanks girl, I owe you!

Summary: Bronwyn confronts Smith head-on and learns what happens when you infuriate an agent, with tragic results.

When Jones had knocked over the vase, his intentions had been to awaken Bronwyn and alert her to the danger she would soon face: Smith. However, Bronwyn had fallen asleep almost as soon as he left the bedroom, due to the intensely pleasurable sexual exertions both of them had been eager to engage in as soon as they had returned home. Furthermore, the bedroom door had been closed; and, consequently, she was not aware that anything untoward had taken place in the living room.

Once the deletion of Jones had been complete and Bronwyn did not come out of the bedroom to investigate the sound of the vase breaking, Smith was pondering his next move when he felt his child being aware of his presence in the apartment. Up until now, Smith had not had the opportunity to feel his child's movements while it grew inside of its mother. With Bronwyn obviously still asleep, now was the perfect time to do so without any interruptions.

He walked to the bedroom and entered. Immediately, his nostrils flared as he inhaled in all the secrets the room held within its walls—the smell of Bronwyn's skin, sweat, and above everything else, the undeniable scent of the passionate sex that had been shared and experienced between herself and Jones, assaulted Smith's nasal circuits and capacitors, almost overloading them with the sexual stimuli he was receiving.

Not anymore, he thought. Now that Jones has been done away with, she will no longer know Jones, but me. Standing by the bed, he looked at the sleeping form of the mother of his child. Bronwyn was fast asleep and lying on her back, a hand behind her neck, and to Smith's delight, her breasts were fully exposed.

He watched her sleep for a long time, contemplating what to do next. He had spent many long months thinking about what he would do to Bronwyn once he caught up with her and now, at long last, she was within arm's reach of him, unprotected and completely at his mercy.

You've made my life a living nightmare, he thought, staring at her intently in the darkness. I have spent almost eight long and weary months wanting you, needing you, every minute of that time. Innumerable times in my mind, I have replayed, relived every moment we have spent together, and it still is not enough. You have reduced me—the most feared agent in the Matrix--to what I am now: an obsessed fool who desires nothing more of life than to be with you always.

If you weren't pregnant with my child, I would take you here and now and make you wish you had never crossed my path. All the hell, all the pain you've put me through ever since we met, would be worth it just to see the expression on your face if you were to wake up and find me in your bed, and inside of you. I would give anything to be able to savor the feeling of your body under mine, your most intimate and tender flesh tight and resisting around me as I thrust into you again and again and hear you cry out in pain as I do so.

I need not mention that I have had considerable experience with women over the years. True, none of those encounters had been consensual; I thoroughly raped each and every one of them. I admit and acknowledge that forcing a woman to submit to my will and desires has always been intensely satisfying for me. It always was and always will be the kind of man I am, and I will make no apologies for this aspect of my being. It is my true character, after all.

However, you are now pregnant with my child and I cannot allow myself to be that same man with you.

_I must not._

I will have to learn to be gentle and considerate the next time we are together. It will go against my nature, but I have no choice, for the last thing I want is to harm my first-born while he or she still slumbers and grows inside of you.

But perhaps our second time together should be different from the first. The Frenchman's wife is a whore, to be sure, but she made me realize something: intimacy that is shared, with each partner participating freely and willingly, is much more pleasurable than using force.

What would it be like, to have you accept and delight in being in my arms, to feel you responding with pleasure to my caresses, and my becoming aroused when you reciprocate? To have you eagerly anticipating our joining instead of dreading it, as it was before? To feel your body counter-thrusting against me, matching my passion with your own? To feel you shudder in ecstasy and cry out my name as we climax together?

What would that truly feel like, I wonder?

His eyes hungrily traveled over every inch of her skin that was not covered by the sheet. Bending down, he brought his face close to hers and inhaled deeply. The scent of her skin, and that underlying fragrance of femininity that had haunted Smith since he met her, filled his senses. He could feel his groin tighten with expectation and he sat down on the edge of the bed.

He leaned on one elbow and with the other hand, gently trailed his hand from her neck to her shoulder, over her breast and down to her hip, all the while enjoying the touch of her velvet-soft skin beneath his fingers.

His hand caressed her breast and he felt her nipple harden slightly when he pinched its rosy tip gently. Encouraged by her complete lack of awareness to his presence, he bent his head and took her nipple between his lips. He suckled it, feeling it harden completely in his mouth. Bronwyn let out a sigh and arched her back in pleasure, pushing herself farther into him. When he was satisfied with her response to this treatment, he repeated his ministrations on her other breast, delighted when Bronwyn moved her hand behind his neck, and ran her fingers through his hair.

He chuckled quietly in the darkness in smug triumph. Bronwyn may hate me, but her body certainly does not. Perhaps on some subconscious level, she is already anticipating nursing our not-yet-born child inside her, he thought.

A sudden movement from inside Bronwyn's belly caught his notice and turned his attention away from the enjoyable sensations he was feeling from finally being able to touch Bronwyn's body unhindered and uninterrupted, to the signals his unborn child was giving in acknowledgement of Smith's presence.

Gently and cautiously, he touched her abdomen and felt the movements of his baby for the first time. His child responded to his touch by suddenly twisting around excitedly inside Bronwyn, causing her to stir in her sleep and move onto her side.

Both Smith and his child were chagrined and annoyed at her unexpected change of sleeping position; and while Smith would not run the risk of moving her onto her back and waking her up just yet, her child had no compunction in letting her mother know how displeased she was, by kicking her vigorously in retaliation.

This time, her child's energetic twisting and turning was enough to wake Bronwyn from her slumber. She ponderously rolled onto her back again, and sleepily opened her eyes, wondering what had caused her baby to be so active at this time of the night. It was dark in the room and she was unable to see anything. She smiled when she felt that someone was sitting beside her on the bed.

"Jones, what took you so long?" she murmured drowsily, her caressing hand trailing up Smith's arm. Feeling fabric instead of bare skin under her fingers, she frowned. "Why did you get dressed again?"

Bracing one hand on the mattress, Smith took her hand with the other and pressed it against his chest so she could feel for herself that she was not dreaming; that he really _was_ there. Smith leaned forward, bringing his face so close to hers that their noses were almost touching. The temptation to kiss her was too great for Smith to pass up and he hesitated for the merest fraction of a second before lowering his mouth onto hers. He kissed her for a moment before he pulled away as gently as he had come.

"No, Bronwyn," he said quietly, "Jones isn't here, I am."

She froze, and then just as quickly, anger flooded through her, evaporating her fear as if it had never been. This has to be a dream, she thought, shaking her head in firm denial, It just has to be.

"This isn't real; it can't be," she whispered hoarsely, her mouth suddenly dry.

"Oh, this is very real, Bronwyn, and I'm finally where I belong—in your bed, with you." He felt the firm, hard peaks of her nipples press against his chest through his shirt and jacket and he growled with pleasure.

"Smith? What are you doing here?! Where is Jones?" she demanded, trying to wrench her hand out of Smith's grip and get away from him and out of bed, but Smith would not let her. He reached past her and turned the night table lamp on, immediately blinding Bronwyn and she put her free hand over her eyes; because not only did the sudden brightness hurt them, but also she particularly wanted to erase Smith's face from her field of vision.

"He's gone."

"What do you mean 'gone'? Where is he? What have done to him?"

"I did nothing to that idiot that he didn't have coming to him, for one reason or another."

"Answer me! Is he dead? Did you ki…" Bronwyn choked, unable to say the next word, for fear that actually speaking it aloud would make it true.

"I didn't kill him, Bronwyn, if that's what you mean. I took him over."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" she demanded furiously, bringing her hands away from her face and glaring at him.

"Surely he told you about the Matrix?"

"Yes."

"Did he tell you what he really was?"

"Yes. He told me he was a program."

"Correct. As you may or may not know, programs can be deleted, erased. Well, I've done just that. I've deleted his existence, but I've kept his memories. They belong to me now. His body and form are gone, that is true; but his thoughts, his feelings, and his memories are mine. I know everything he ever did, everything he ever thought about; which, not surprisingly, wasn't very much."

"BULLSHIT!" Bronwyn shouted, trying to free herself by wriggling out from under Smith's arm, but it was useless. "Goddamn it, Smith, let me go!"

"I am telling the truth."

"Prove it," she spat angrily.

"And how would you like me to do that?"

"Tell me something only Jones would know."

"Alright," he agreed, and then thought for a moment. "You've had recurring nightmares about me where you thought I would have a C-section performed on you without an anesthetic, leaving you to die, alone and bleeding."

"Wouldn't you?" Bronwyn sneered derisively. "If it was the only way that you could get your hands on my child, you're damn right you would, and you know it." She shook her head firmly. "Not good enough, Smith. I've told a few people about that dream; you could've heard it from any one of them. Think of something else."

"The last few lines of one of your favorite songs are:

"_And in the master's chambers, they gathered for the feast_

_They stab it with their steely knives, but they just can't kill the beast._

_Last thing I remember, I was running for the door_

_I had to find the passage back to the place I was before._

"_Relax," said the night man, "we are programmed to receive. _

_You can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave."_

"'Although why anyone would go to a hotel they couldn't leave is most perplexing, wouldn't you say, Bronwyn?' Those were his exact words to you after you insisted on playing that ridiculous song in the car on your way home from the hospital."

She listened with alarm and she could feel her heart pounding in her ears. She had told no one, _no one_ other than Jones who had been there, about that. It was true, then—all of it—Jones was truly gone from her forever, Smith had seen to that. She was alone, again, with no one to look after her. Alone with her baby. With Smith.

Before she had time to even blink, let alone deal with the repercussions of what he had just told her, Smith tied her scarf around her neck.

"Your skin is so soft, so fragrant," he murmured, placing his cheek against hers and his voice became husky with desire as he spoke. "With Jones gone, we can be together now, Bronwyn. We were made for each other, you and me. I can give you more nice things, even better than this," he said softly as he fingered her scarf and smoothed out its broad folds. "You are trembling. Here, let me warm you up."

When he was done with the scarf, he held her shoulders in his hands, caressing them gently. He slid his hands down her arms to her elbows, and then touched her nipples first with the palms of his hands, then with his fingers.

His breathing became constrained and he unconsciously sighed in contentment when he tenderly touched her stomach and felt the movements of his child. Their daughter kicked when she felt her father's touch again and Smith smiled.

"You see, Bronwyn, our child knows that I am here with you—as I should be."

Bronwyn slapped his hand away. "Don't touch me!" she hissed like an angry cat and pushed him away from her with both hands. Bronwyn sat up, trying to cover herself with the sheet as best she could. She clutched the sheet over her breasts to hide them from Smith's unrelenting stare and Bronwyn could see the desire in his eyes. "I would _never_ take anything from you, Smith. Ever!" she shouted.

"Who do you think sent you the scarf?" he said, his voice becoming low and dangerous, but Bronwyn was too angry to notice. "Jones didn't send it to you, _I_ did. Remember the card that came with it? 'I thought this would bring out the green in your eyes'. I was right, wasn't I? It_ does_ bring the green out and you know it too, or else you wouldn't wear it all the time."

"Take it back, then!" she yelled at him, her eyes blazing. What Bronwyn was not aware of was that anger or rage would make her eyes appear almost emerald in color. It had transfixed several men over the years, and Smith was the latest in a long line of men to be overwhelmed by the intensity of their gaze, as well as their color.

"I don't want it anymore, now that I finally know where it came from and who sent it. For all I know, it's probably some cheap knock-off," Bronwyn said scathingly.

It was no such thing and she knew it; but the Irish temper she had inherited from her father was roused to its fullest extent and she wasn't about to back down. I am through being afraid of you, Bronwyn thought to herself.

"That scarf was a designer original, Bronwyn. It cost me a great deal of money, you know, but I didn't care about that when I bought it for you. I bought it because I wanted to and I thought it would nice on you. Jones certainly could not have afforded it. I paid more for that scarf than that moron did for his entire suit he wore tonight. He was perfectly willing to spend several thousand dollars to make himself look good, rather than buy you a ring to put on your finger, and announce to the world that you are his. That's what _I_ would have done. But what does the big baboon do instead? He buys you a necklace with a fanciful little trinket on the end of it." By the look on her face, he knew that that remark had hit home.

He saw that she was still wearing her necklace with its Egyptian pendant. With a snarl, he tore the necklace from her neck and threw it on the floor.

"Now that you are with me, you will never wear anything that Jones purchased for you, especially that piece of useless junk, is that clear?" Smith commanded.

"You son-of-a-bitch!" Bronwyn shouted, slapping him hard across the face. "You think that you are so much better than Jones, don't you? You are always putting him down, calling him _stupid_ or _brainless_, well, let me tell you something: you are _nothing_ compared to him. Nothing! And I should know," Bronwyn smirked at Smith knowingly, "because I've slept with both of you and there are plenty of comparisons I could make between you. And guess what, Smith? You lost. You are a lesser man than Jones _in every sense of the word_." She looked down at his groin with an arch of her eyebrow, then into his eyes so that he understood her meaning.

"You will be with _me_ from now on, Bronwyn, not Jones," he stated, his voice becoming cold and determined. "He is gone, from both the Matrix _and_ your life, and he is never coming back. Deal with it. I've made sure that he will not come between us any longer. Besides, he could never have loved you the way that I can, the way I will. When our baby is born, the three of us will be together. As a family."

"You actually believe that after this baby is born, that she is going to love you?" Bronwyn said incredulously. "Do you really think that we will be some happy little family, _with you and me and baby makes three_? You have the right to see her after she is born, that is true, and there is nothing legally I can do to change that, but I'm telling you something right now, Smith: I will do everything and anything in my power to see that she hates you as much as I do."

"'_She_'?" Smith said, surprised. "You know it's a girl?"

"A mother knows," she said sententiously, her stubborn little chin jutted out at Smith challengingly. "Are you disappointed? Or were you hoping for a boy?"

"It doesn't matter to me if it is a girl or a boy, as long as it's healthy; that is what is most important."

Bronwyn laughed, jeeringly. "You mean, as long as there is nothing wrong with it, right?"

He ignored her words until the meaning of what she had said earlier permeated his comprehension. "What do you mean; 'she will hate me as much as you do'?"

"I will teach my daughter to hate and fear and _completely_ despise you. She will hate the sound of your voice, and the very sight of you. She will even turn away in disgust at the slightest mention of your name. She will see you as nothing more than a sperm donor—a fucking psycho who raped me and got me pregnant. That is all you will ever be to her. Oh, I will _love_ telling our daughter what her father is truly capable of--what a monster you are, Smith; really, I will. As a result, I wouldn't count on having any quality father/daughter time with her when she gets older, if I were you."

He grabbed the knot in her scarf and twisted it savagely, the scarf becoming tighter and tighter around Bronwyn's neck. When he spoke, the words came from behind teeth that were clenched together and specks of spittle flew into her face; he was so enraged and angry that his whole body was shaking and the veins in his forehead stood out.

"You bitch! I am warning you: don't you _dare_ think of turning our daughter against me. I will be this child's father, make no mistake about that, Bronwyn. I _will_ take part in her care and upbringing, whether you like it or not. Like you, yourself just said: there is nothing you can do to stop me. As for comparing Jones and myself, who the hell are you to point fingers, anyway? You are nothing more than a whore who would give herself to any man with $20 in his pocket! With all the times he's fucked you, Jones may have given you quantity, but _I'm_ the one who got you pregnant, didn't I?" When she did not answer, he shook her forcefully. "_Didn't I? _I AM THIS CHILD'S FATHER AND DON'T YOU EVER FORGET IT!"

In his fury, Smith was oblivious to the fact that Bronwyn _could not_ answer. He had twisted the scarf with such force that she was unable to breathe or make an intelligible sound other than a gurgling choke as he slowly and painfully squeezed the life out of her. She tried to claw at his hands to get out of his grip any way she could, however, the flames of his jealousy and lust had been awakened and would not be easily extinguished by any action on her part. She reached up and dragged her nails into his face in a futile attempt to free herself. If anything, her resistance only incensed and aroused him even more.

His voice began to fade from Bronwyn's consciousness, and her struggles were lessening. Without warning, she felt strange and unfamiliar movements happening within her, and she knew that something was wrong with the baby. Bronwyn pressed her hand against her womb as she felt a tearing sensation from within her, followed by a rush of hot liquid leave her body from between her legs.

My water broke, she thought. It's too soon. I can't have this baby now. Please, God, make it stop, make _him _stop before he kills us…She tried to transmit her dilemma to Smith and somehow make him stop before it was too late, but the blackness of unconsciousness came too quickly.

What she did not know was that it had not been water, but blood.

When Bronwyn lost her struggle to free herself from Smith's unyielding death-grip, her child knew its mother's life was in danger because of what Smith was doing to her. It sent out a soundless scream of such fear and terror--fear of its father, and terror because of the pain his actions were having on its mother--the intensity and desperation of it penetrated Smith's consciousness at last. With horrified comprehension, he realized he was killing her as well as their child, with his fury.

Smith released his hold on Bronwyn's neck and scarf and she fell back onto the bed and did not move. He threw the sheet that had been covering her to one side, and it wasn't until he saw Bronwyn lying in a pool of blood that was gushing from between her legs that he realized how fragile her health—and that of their baby—really was.


	27. Broken Lullaby

Broken Lullaby

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Summary: After Bronwyn miscarries, Smith takes her from the hospital so she won't fall into the hands of the Machines.

Holding Bronwyn's hand in the ambulance, Smith listened to the screaming of its sirens. Neither of them will die. Both of them will be fine. The phrase repeated itself over and over in his mind like an infinite loop. He had not received any communication with his child since he heard its call of distress, and during the time the ambulance made its way to the hospital, Smith placed his hand on Bronwyn's abdomen, but could not detect the slightest movement or sign of life to indicate that his child was still living. There was nothing.

After Bronwyn had been admitted, he paced incessantly in the waiting room feeling increasingly anxious and the thought that he was solely responsible for all of this gnawed at his mind until her obstetrician came to discuss her condition.

"No, Doctor," he snarled, holding the woman against the wall and off the floor by the lapels of her white lab coat, when she had finished giving Smith her assessment. "_Neither_ of them will die--that is simply not an option; do you understand?" he said, through clenched teeth.

"Put me down," she ordered sharply and he obliged, glaring at her. "You haven't been listening. It's too late. Ms. Delaney has lost the baby. That is what I came out to tell you. She had a daughter."

"So, Bronwyn was right; she is carrying my daughter," Smith said, his blank and staring gaze seeing, but not seeing, the older man in the light grey suit who came up from behind Smith and stood by his side.

"She _was_ carrying your daughter, Smith, but she's dead." The Architect stated with finality.

"She's dead? But….Bronwyn? What about her? Is she…?"

"No, she's not dead. She's alive, but she's very weak. We would have lost her too, if it had not been for Dr. Mihelcic here. She managed to save Ms, Delaney, but just barely. By rights, she should have died from her injuries and blood loss, but she did not. Ms. Delaney is proving to be a very wise choice for the breeding of our two races."

"You are not human, you're a program," Smith observed, looking at her shrewdly.

"Yes, Former Agent Smith, I am. We eliminated Dr. Yade after Ms. Delaney's hospitalization and I was put into her place for the sole purpose of taking care of both mother and child until it was time for the delivery. You made us lose the first human/program hybrid because of what you did to the mother tonight. However, according to the results of my examination of an hour ago, Ms. Delaney is perfectly capable of bearing more children for us. And once she has recovered sufficiently, she will do so."

Smith could not help feeling revolted with the woman's cold, matter-of-fact evaluation of Bronwyn's present physical state. Her condition is being discussed as if she has no feelings or no wishes of her own, he thought disgustedly. His lip curled as he watched Dr. Mihelcic walk away to tend to the release of Bronwyn. He turned his attention back to the Architect.

"You needn't look at me like that, Smith. It's for the best, really, that she comes with us to our world."

"Oh, really?" Smith asked acerbically. "And why is that, exactly?"

"Because of you, she's lost everything in this world that was dear to her—Jones and her child; all because of you and your petty jealousy. Do you think she will want to stay with you after what you have done, what you have taken from her? I doubt it."

"I _know_ what I've done and what I'm responsible for," Smith said gruffly. "You don't have to stress the point. Why did she lose the baby?"

"It's quite simple. The child was too young to survive outside of its mother. In a week or ten days perhaps, medical science would have been able to save it. But no. You had to hurt the girl and cause her to lose the baby, didn't you? The loss of the child was a big blow to us, Smith, but the mother can still be of use, so all is not lost. Jones' little girlfriend is turning out to be quite a fighter, you know. As you have undoubtedly found out for yourself, judging by those scratches on your face. Quite the little hellcat, isn't she?" The Architect scoffed and a vulgar smile appeared on his face when he saw the marks of Bronwyn's fingernails on Smith's visage. "She must be an extraordinary woman to be able to get in a few shots past _you_, of all people. Perhaps," the Architect continued reflectively, "I should consider making her give me a child as well. I think we could use an infusion of spirit like hers; we have become too complacent and set in our ways."

Not if I have anything to say about that, Smith fumed silently. I would rather see her dead than in your arms. "What will you do with Bronwyn now?"

"In a few days when she is strong enough to survive the journey, her digital self will be taken to the Machine City. Her body will still remain in her pod; after all, a battery is still a battery."

"What have you done with my child? Where is she?" Smith demanded.

"When Ms. Delaney arrived here, we determined that the child was in severe distress and in all likelihood, would not have survived the ordeal of childbirth. A decision was made to remove the fetus from the mother in her pod in the Real World. Since the removal of the child from her actual body caused no stress or trauma to her digital one, it has been decided that all of her future offspring will be delivered the same way. It is a shame that we have to work around the confines of the normal gestation period for humans; I would have preferred much faster development of the fetus than 36 weeks. But," he shrugged indifferently, "we have to take what we can get."

Smith glared at the Architect in loathing and abhorrence. The idea of Bronwyn's body being sliced open and violated every nine months even though it was still in her pod, was cruelty beyond what he had ever imagined the Architect to be capable of.

"And what will you do to my child? No doubt the remains of my daughter are to be examined and picked apart like some kind of lab rat, right, _Father_?" Smith spat furiously.

"Of course. Can you blame us? We can learn much from her even though she is dead. The mother knows nothing of this, of course. All she knows is that she is no longer pregnant. If Ms. Delaney had gone through childbirth, it would have been at least one or two months before her body would have recovered enough for us to attempt insemination.

Not only that, but Ms. Delaney will not experience the usual physical after-effects of giving birth; for example, the pain a woman would normally feel after such an event, either from a vaginal or Caesarean delivery, not to mention the post-partum bleeding as well." The Architect wrinkled his nose in distaste. "As for her emotional state, that is more uncertain. She will probably experience some form of depression, post-partum or otherwise. After all, you did eliminate Jones as well as cause her miscarriage tonight. She may lactate, but that's unlikely. All she needs now is a few days of rest before she will be capable of conceiving again. Just as a precaution, we've corrected that heart defect she had so that in the future, neither the life of the mother nor the offspring she will produce for us will be threatened in any way."

Smith became so infuriated and enraged at the offhand tone he heard in the Architect's voice, that he thrust his hand into the older man's chest to begin the replication process. The Architect widened his eyes in shock and pain as Smith's matrix code began to overwrite his own.

"Now _you_ know what it's like to feel pain, don't you, _Dad_? Payback's a bitch, isn't it?" Smith hissed in his face. "If there was a way I could hurt you even more, believe me I would do it. This is but a small repayment for everything you've done to me and you know it."

The feel of the cold muzzle of a Desert Eagle revolver against the nape of his neck forced Smith to reconsider his plan for assimilating the Architect.

"Release him, Smith," Agent Thompson ordered. "Now."

Smith yanked his hand from the chest of the Architect and his code pattern returned to its normal parameters. Panting slightly, it took a little while until the Architect felt himself again and he brusquely brushed off the attempt of one of the other upgrades to steady him. "Leave me alone, I'm fine," he snapped, all the while glaring at Smith. "That was most unwise, Smith, as you will soon find out. In case you haven't noticed, you are outnumbered three to one." The Architect glanced briefly at Agents Johnson and Jackson who stood on either side of Thompson. "You can't possibly win against such odds, Smith, so you might as well submit yourself to them now."

"And where will they be taking me, as if I couldn't already guess?" Smith asked snidely.

"You will be going to the Machine City to be terminated; it's where you should have gone when Neo destroyed you. However, you chose to be an exile and I, to my great chagrin, allowed you to do so because I was too focused on your child."

"I'm not going back," Smith said, doggedly. "I won't. You will have to kill me first."

"As you wish, then," the Architect shrugged and nodded. At this signal, Agent Thompson squeezed the trigger and terminated Smith's existence.

llllllllllll

When Smith felt his clone die, he knew that time was of the essence and knew it would only be a matter of minutes before the upgrades—as well as the Architect himself— realized that the Smith that had just been destroyed was a copy and _not_ the original.

"Stay outside of her room and watch for trouble," Smith ordered other copy of himself. He walked into Bronwyn's hospital room and stood by her bed.

When Smith came into the room, Bronwyn had feared that it was the return of her so-called ob/gyn, coming to give her another examination, and she feigned being asleep. The woman had examined me with as much care and gentleness as if I were a side of beef, Bronwyn thought angrily. For the first time in her life, she felt violated and humiliated after such an intimate examination by a gynecologist, and had made a resolution after Dr. Mihelcic had left, that if that woman touched her again, Bronwyn would gladly slap her.

There was no trace of color in her face and until she opened her eyes when Smith entered, one could almost believe she was already dead. There were, however, vivid black-and-blue marks on her neck where Smith had twisted the scarf in his all-consuming rage during her comparison between himself and Jones. He shifted his gaze from her bruised neck to her face.

Her eyes widened in recognition and anger when she saw who it was, but before Bronwyn could so much as take a breath, Smith strode across the room over to her bedside and reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a syringe, and injected its contents into her arm. Because of her exhausted state, it did not take long for the sedative to take effect and Bronwyn slumped back against the pillows, her eyes closed.

I know that you hate even being in the same room with me right now, Smith thought to himself, but I will not let you fall into their hands. I'm sorry to have to do this, but I have no choice. No matter what it takes, I'm getting you out of here. The Machines will be coming for you soon. They have taken our daughter; I will not let them take you from me as well.

Smith removed all of her IV tubes and picked her up in his arms. Two of his other selves were waiting outside.

"Did you assimilate her physician?" Smith asked. One of the clones nodded.

"Good. Bronwyn will need constant observation and medical care for a few days once I take her out of here," said Smith. "Stay close behind me and if anyone tries to stop us, shoot to kill. We do not have the time to wait for the integration of anyone now."

When Smith and his other selves made it to the car, he carried Bronwyn to the backseat and held her in his arms. On his order, both clones removed their jackets and Smith wrapped them around Bronwyn so that she would be warm until they arrived at their destination and she could be properly taken care of.

Smith had had his arrangements concerning Bronwyn completed so quickly that as he had expected, there had been no pursuit. Not yet, at any rate. He knew that the Machines that wanted Bronwyn had been thwarted, although temporarily, and that he had some time before they would find them both.

In her present condition, Bronwyn would need complete rest and Smith knew that she would have to remain in bed for few days so she could recuperate and gather her strength, before they could leave the city.

Smith had given a lot of thought as to where he should take her in order to accomplish this, and he had decided that he would rent out the penthouse suite at one of the best hotels in the city. It was one of many that the Merovingian owned around the world, however, it wasn't until Smith agreed to pay the Frenchman a ludicrous amount of money before he would allow Bronwyn and Smith to stay there.

To ensure Bronwyn's safety, Smith would position some of his other clones to patrol the hallways of the lower floors and have two more guard the entrance of the suite itself. By doing this, he would be certain that no one other than himself and select hotel staff at most, could see or have any access to Bronwyn.

Bronwyn remained unconscious for several hours and when she finally woke up, she was surprised to see the furnishings of an elegant hotel room surrounding her, not the sterile, whitewashed walls of her hospital room. There were several intravenous tubes attached to her, and the bed was surrounded by a variety of medical equipment. Her eyes found and focused on a tall figure standing in front of a large picture window, his attention on what he was seeing outside, but he was not looking at her or even in her general direction.

A memory of another such awakening flashed before her eyes and for an instant she thought she was reliving a moment she had experienced during her first hospital stay. Late one night, she had woken up and seen the silhouette of Jones outlined before her window, and now she prayed that all of this had been a dream.

"Jones?" she whispered, daring to hope that he had returned to her.

Her pleasant vision of a dream turned into a nightmare when the man turned around and she saw whom it was.

"Oh, it's only you," she said, disappointed.

Instead of answering, the man went to the door of the room, and opened it.

"She's awake," he said to someone outside, and Bronwyn distrusted what her eyes were telling her when she saw the original version of Smith enter her room and with a wave of his hand, imperiously dismiss the first.

Her hazel eyes stared into Smith's blue ones for a long moment. He had prepared himself for the barrage of blame and accusation, but there was none. To Bronwyn, none of that mattered now.

"Did you see her?" she whispered, her throat dry and parched.

He shook his head. "Did you?" he asked.

"No. The doctors told me that she was already dead by the time we got there. She died so quickly." Bronwyn grabbed Smith by the sleeve. "Don't let them hurt her, Smith. Please don't let them cut her up. I heard a little of what that awful man said to you when you both were arguing. I don't care what happens to me anymore, but please, _please_, don't let him get his hands on her," she begged him; her eyes were eloquent in their desperation as they stared beseechingly into his.

Smith held her hand and nodded. "I won't, Bronwyn. They won't hurt her, I promise." I wonder if she knows that I am lying, Smith thought. I was too late to stop them from taking our daughter's remains to the Machine World, but Bronwyn does not need to know that. Let her think that our child will be taken care of, buried decently perhaps, but taken care of nonetheless. If you only knew what they have planned for you, Bronwyn, you _would_ care, believe me.

"Thank you." She leaned back against the pillows, looked into Smith's face, and saw how drawn and tired he appeared. "But I don't understand something, Smith."

"What?"

"It's like she just disappeared," Bronwyn ran her hand over her much smaller stomach. "I know a C-section wasn't performed, because there is no incision. And I would've known if I had given birth, but I know I didn't because it doesn't hurt anywhere, so where did she go?"

Smith did not answer.

"You know what happened to her, don't you?"

He nodded.

"Please tell me. I want to know what they did to our baby and where she might be."

No, you don't, Smith thought. You do not want to know the answer to either question, trust me.

"You're not going to tell me, are you?"

Smith shook his head. Perhaps it's for the best that I don't know, Bronwyn thought as she drew a long, shuddering breath. "I feel so empty inside, now that she's gone. I miss her."

"I know, Bronwyn," he said softly.

"Why did she have to die? _Why? _I never even got to hold her just once, or even to say goodbye." She shivered and wrapped her arms around her chest to keep warm. "I'm so cold," she whispered.

Smith took her in his arms, hoping that by doing so he could make her feel a little warmer and bring some color to her white and chalky face. For one moment, she and Smith were not at odds with one another; they were the parents of a dead child. For one moment, both machine and human were united in their mutual grief.

The sorrow she had tried to hold off for so long overtook her weakened, deteriorated state and she wept for everything she had lost. Unable to stop herself, she returned his embrace, taking and accepting a part of his strength as freely as it had been given to her.

Her heart felt like it had been ripped out of her body. Her anguish at losing her only child caused her to clutch at Smith's blazer as her tears continued to fall. She desperately sought a source of strength that could support her in her time of need and she found it in the unlikeliest of places: in the arms of the father of her dead little girl.

For a long time, Bronwyn rested against him, her cheek on his shoulder while she wrapped her arms around him. When her tears had subsided a little, she came to herself and realized where she was and what she was doing, and pushed him away. On impulse, she suddenly reached into his jacket and removed his weapon from its holster that had held it under his left arm.

"Go ahead, shoot me. You'll be doing me a favor." Smith leaned forward until the muzzle of the gun was resting against his heart. He looked into her face as she looked into his and she realized he meant what he said. He was going to call my bluff because he really does not care if I shoot him. He doesn't care if he lives or dies anymore, does he, she thought, perplexed. Could it be that he actually feels grief over the loss of our daughter, or is this all an act?

For his part, Smith was not calling her bluff; he knew that she could never pull the trigger for she was too weak to do so. It takes a great deal of strength to pull the trigger of a Desert Eagle. Agents were strong enough to do it effortlessly with one hand—for humans, male or female, it would take two. Then again, if her determination was strong enough….Smith was glad that he had taken the precaution of unloading it before he had entered her room.

"No, Smith. This bullet's not meant for you." Bronwyn pulled the gun away from where it was pointed at Smith' chest and let it rest in her lap.

"Don't do this, Bronwyn."

"Why not? Give me one good reason why shouldn't I pull this trigger and end my life? What do I have to live for, anyway? My baby and the man that I loved are both dead. In one night, you took everything that ever mattered from me."

"She was my baby too, Bronwyn."

"But _I _carried her. _I_ felt her move and grow inside of me, you didn't!" Bronwyn shouted, sitting up in bed, her eyes flashing; and it was the lone spark of fire in her otherwise ashen face.

"You are right--I will never know what it is like to carry a child, but I do know what it means to feel responsible for it. We created this child--together. It wasn't just you and it wasn't just me. Furthermore, do you think that mothers are the only ones who can sense something from their unborn children? Fathers can, too. I did."

"Liar! You can't feel anything, Smith, you're a machine, remember?"

"You are wrong, Bronwyn. I _can_ feel emotion. And Jones is not dead; all of his memories, everything the two of you shared is right here," he tapped his temple, "inside of me."

"No, Jones is gone." She stubbornly shook her head, trying not to listen. He's lying. Jones is dead and he can't come back to me. I will never see him again, never get to touch him or have him hold and comfort me when I get frightened.

"Just because you have his memories doesn't mean anything, Smith."

She put the heavy gun to her temple and tried to pull the trigger. Even using her two hands, she wasn't strong enough. Frustrated and vexed, she tried repeatedly to fire the weapon, but she was not able to. She threw the gun at him, out of breath and winded from her exertions.

"Here! Take the damn thing back," she snarled.

"It wasn't loaded, Bronwyn."

"Why not? Why would you carry a gun around with no bullets in it?" she said, scornfully. He had foreseen her intentions and parried accordingly, making her angrier than ever.

"I didn't load it because I thought you might try something like that."

"Before you go, tell me something: who was that other man that was here when I woke up? He looked exactly like you."

"It was a copy of me."

"Yes, I could see that, Smith," she said dryly. "Why? Why did you duplicate yourself?"

"So that I could be in more than one place at the same time. I knew that the best way to prevent you from being taken by the Machines was if my copy distracted the Architect and the upgraded agents long enough so that I could take you out of the hospital without them knowing where you were, or where you had gone. I needed someone that I could trust implicitly and the only person I could ever depend upon was myself."

"Where am I?" she asked, looking around the room. "This certainly does _not_ look like any hospital I've ever been in. Is this a hotel?"

"Persephone's husband owns this hotel. He knows we are here, but he won't tell anyone that."

"Can he be trusted?"

"No, but I've given him an absurd amount of money so he would keep his mouth shut and let us stay here. Don't worry, you'll be safe, Bronwyn."

Safe? With you?"

"It doesn't matter whether you believe me or not."

"You're right, I _don't_ believe you. How long do I have to stay here?"

"A couple of days longer, perhaps. You are very weak now, but when you are stronger, we should be able to leave."

"_We?_"

He nodded.

"Or what exactly? Just what oh-so-horrible fate are you saving me from, hmm? Why did you take me out of the hospital? Why do I have to hide like this? Who is after me and what the hell do they want?" she demanded.

"Do you really want to know?"

"Tell me, Smith. Tell me everything."

And he did.

lllllllllllllllll

"Why are you doing this?" she asked him when he was finished. The things he told her were awful and too terrible for her to dwell upon or even consider. She shuddered when she realized the implications of what Smith had told her.

"Doing what, Bronwyn?" he asked.

"Sav—getting me away from them. I mean, I could understand if I was still pregnant….but I'm not. So, why are you doing this? Why are you going to all this trouble?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he looked away and Bronwyn could see how uncomfortable he suddenly appeared. She couldn't believe it--this usually too-full-of-himself, smug, overly confident man was actually at a loss for words. The idea was almost laughable, if it wasn't so pathetic, in its own way.

"Why--" she began again, she never got to finish her sentence before he rounded on her. She was startled when he stood up suddenly, his hands clenched into fists at his sides and for a moment, she thought he was going to strike her. Bronwyn braced herself for the blow, but it never came.

"Why are you asking me all these questions, Bronwyn? Do you _want_ to go there, to the Real World? To be impregnated over and over again, against your will, by Machines? When I spoke with the Architect in the hospital, he told me that he wants you to conceive and bear his child. Is that what you want? Because I can still arrange it if you like," Smith's voice had risen until he was shouting at her in his anger and frustration. "Do you _REALLY_ want to know why I am doing this? Why I am helping you get away? _DO YOU??_"

She nodded, for once not afraid of his anger or the possible consequences of pushing him too far. What else could he do to me, she wondered. What else could he possibly take from me now that was of any importance? She could think of absolutely nothing.

"Because I care about what happens to you. Is that so hard to believe?" Smith spun on his heel and abruptly left the room, slamming the door behind him.

Yes, it is, she thought.

lllllllllllllllll

"Since I took Jones over, I'm beginning to see you as he did; not as an object to possess, but a woman that I can love and take care of. I know now how much he loved you, Bronwyn. I was almost overwhelmed at the depth of emotion he felt for you. It never occurred to me that he had evolved, the same way I did; to be able to feel emotions that we never could before. Jealousy, for one. I admit I was very jealous of Jones and how much you loved him. It was very difficult to deal with the knowledge that you preferred him over me, and that he could share your bed anytime he wanted." Smith paused, remembering all the times he had seen Bronwyn and Jones. Always together and obviously in love.

"Do you know what I did after you and Jones left me at the restaurant?" Smith continued, "I actually sought out a prostitute. Yes, I did climax, but I didn't enjoy it, do you know why? Because she wasn't you. I wanted _you _to do those things to me not her. It's _always_ been you. Ever since the night we were together for the first time all those months ago, I haven't desired to be with another woman…." What happened between Persephone and myself doesn't count, he reflected dismissively. She only wanted to toy with me, to see if she still had her skills teasing men; inflaming their senses and making them desire her as she used to in the old days.

"_The night we were together_?'" Bronwyn repeated derisively, mocking his words and interrupting his thoughts. "You make it seem like it was some fucking romantic interlude! You raped me! You held me down on the table and you forced yourself into me. Do you know how much it hurt? And it wasn't enough that you were raping me at the time, you had to choke me until I wasn't able to breathe, and the only reason I could think of was that you needed to know that you were hurting me before you could get off, right? After I left you, I couldn't even sit down on the bus ride home, because that part of me that you violated hurt too much to even consider it! Do you have any idea, any clue, how much and how long I bled, afterward?" Bronwyn had buried the memories of that night deep inside, but now she could see them before her, as vivid and clear as the night it had happened.

Yes, I do know how much I hurt you, Smith thought. You will never know it, but I was in your apartment shortly before I met you in the park. I saw the bloody towel on your bathroom floor. He forced his mind to pay attention to what was happening in the present, and not dwell on the past.

"I can't believe that you actually have the nerve, the unmitigated gall, to bring up Jones now and make a mockery of what he and I shared…." Her voice broke off and it took a great effort on her part not to allow her grief to overwhelm her. "I loved him and he loved me! He never raised his hand or even his voice at me. He accepted me for who I am, not what I was a long time ago. But all of that is over now. You just couldn't live with the fact that for the first and only time in your life, you were _second best_. You took the life of our unborn baby, Smith, when you tried to kill me, and all because I said some things you didn't like! And on top of everything, you've never even told me that you were _sorry_!"

"Whether you believe me or not, Bronwyn, I _am_ sorry. I know what I have done and I regret it more than I can ever say. That is something I will have to live with. But first, I have to tell you something, I have to make you understand that ever since I assimilated him, I've felt the same things about you that he did, such as his love for you. Because he is now a part of me, he's made me feel something toward you that I wasn't aware of until just a few days ago."

Bronwyn swallowed nervously. She had a good idea of what he was going to say to her. She had been about to blurt out that she could never love him, but a part of her mind rejected that course of action before she even opened her mouth.

The fact was that she _needed_ him. As repulsive and repugnant as the idea was, she needed him to keep her safe from the Machines and he was the only one who could do it. If she had to keep him mollified and appeased with half-promises and lies if need be, then she was willing to do it. Being this close to him was distasteful, but it was infinitely better than the fate that awaited her in the Machine World. At least, Smith looked human; but what did the creatures or beings in the other world look like? Bronwyn decided that she did not _ever_ want to find out.

"Can we discuss this tomorrow?" she asked quietly. She dropped her gaze from Smith's eyes to her hands that were in her lap, twiddling with the rings on her fingers. "I can't deal with any of this right now. I'm tired."

"All right, Bronwyn. Sleep well," Smith said, getting up from the bed. He went to the door and closed it behind him.

Well, I dodged that bullet, Bronwyn thought to herself. But for how long? A day? A week? I doubt it. As soon as she heard Smith's footsteps recede away from the door, she got out of bed and went over to the in-suite bar. She hesitated before making her selection of the available spirits and took the bottle with her to bed.

She sat up in bed, her knees drawn up to her chest and stared into the darkness, alternatively pondering on what she should do, with taking long swallows of the expensive aperitif she had chosen to drink.

She had not had anything alcoholic to drink since the long-ago night of her rape and it didn't take long for her mind and body to become intoxicated with the effects of the strong liqueur. Sleep came to her eventually; and with it came the nightmares that would plague her until the end of her life.

lllllllllllllllll

Standing outside her bedroom door a few hours later, Smith paused to listen to the sounds that Bronwyn was making in her sleep. She's having another bad dream he thought, his forehead furrowing in concern and worry. The fact that she is having a nightmare shouldn't be too surprising after all; all she has to do is remember what I did to her, to us, _that_ night. If that doesn't qualify as a nightmare, then I don't know what will.

Slowly and quietly, he opened the door and looked into the darkness, attempting to determine if Bronwyn was all right. Agents had been programmed with a cat-like ability to see in the dark as well as they could in the daytime and that was why they almost never took their sunglasses off. For Smith, however, he had them on at all times when dealing or talking to his other selves, but when he was with Bronwyn, he always removed them.

Smith saw her thrashing about to such a degree that she was very close to falling out of bed. He walked over to her and gently moved her body so that she was in the centre of the bed again, and he lay beside her, murmuring soft words and sounds of comfort in an attempt to calm her down. His efforts were not immediately successful as she still fretted and fussed, distressed about something in her dream, so Smith held her in the crook of his arm, her head against his shoulder.

Some part of his ministrations penetrated her alcohol-induced stupor; and a dim, faded memory came to her mind about having a nightmare like this one and being held like this by Jones, a man who would always be there to keep her safe from the denizens of the night that invaded her dreams. He is still here. He hasn't left me after all, she thought dreamily.

She woke up just enough to give his killer a slow and lingering kiss on the lips before nestling against his warm body. She sighed deeply in contentment and fell asleep again.


	28. Wasted

Wasted

Disclaimer: I don't own the Matrix or any of the characters in the movies.

Summary: During her recuperation at the hotel, Bronwyn becomes addicted to narcotics and Smith decides that he will use their effects on her to his advantage.

Author's Note: A big thank you to Cecilia for all of your valuable & advice! Also, to BlueJ: the reason Smith was so eager to have a child of his own is that a) in my story, there was never a program/human hybrid in the Matrix' history and he realizes the significance and importance of his child being the first and b) since his own "rebirth" altered his programming so drastically, he wanted to experience fatherhood for himself.

lllllllll

.Bronwyn hurriedly searched through all the bottles of liquor that were in the bar in her hotel room and was dismayed to discover that all of them were empty. How the hell could all that liquor just disappear, she wondered. Could I actually have drunk all of it?

She did have hazy memories of the last few days, but couldn't remember a period of any length of time where she did not have a bottle in her hand. I've gone from complete abstinence to a boozehound in the course of a few days, she thought sadly. It would seem that aside from drinking, all I've done recently is sleep and cry. Well, after all that I have gone through recently, I am perfectly entitled to do all three and to hell with what anyone else may think.

"GOD FUCKING DAMN IT!" Bronwyn cursed loudly, angry and peeved at herself, for she knew that the only thing in the room that contained any alcohol was wine. She made a face and took a drink, almost tempted to spit it back out again. She sneered as she read the label on the bottle: _Chateau Mero_. Ooh fucking la la. This stuff tastes like someone made it in their bathtub, not a vineyard.

Whoever invented wine should be shot, she thought darkly, as she deftly tossed the bottle into a nearby wastebasket. She quickly amended that thought, as it was the Ancient Egyptians who did so and Bronwyn revered their accomplishments and contributions that benefited mankind even thousands of years later.

Almost immediately, she heard a tentative knock at the door. Terrific, Bronwyn thought, exasperated. That woman from the boutique downstairs is here making sure that the clothes Smith sent up to me are satisfactory and I wouldn't be surprised if he sent her to spy on me as well.

Well, I guess I should be grateful to Smith for buying some clothes for me in the first place since he would not let me go back to my apartment to pick up a few things. It was too dangerous he had told me when I asked him. Maybe he was right, I don't know, but the real reason I wanted to go back is to pick up my necklace. It is the only memento I have of Jones, the only thing I have to remember him by.

"Is everything all right, _Madame_?" the girl inquired as she stuck her head inside the door. Bronwyn turned her head and quickly wiped her tears away before the girl could see them. If she knew I was crying, she'll go straight to Smith and the last thing I need is _him_ asking me if I'm okay.

"No, everything is NOT all right! All I have to drink is some crappy French wine that tastes like fucking horse piss!" She turned and faced the girl directly. "Unless you know where I can get something else? Something _other_ than alcohol, if you know what I mean? Like drugs, maybe?" she asked hopefully, "name your price and I'll pay it."

"Did you say drugs, _Madame_ Smith?"

Bronwyn tried to keep her temper in check but failed. "Yes, I did, _and don't you ever call me 'Madame Smith' ever again, you hear me?_ You know what my name is, and it sure as hell isn't _that_. Just call me Ronnie, please?"

The girl shook her head. "_Monsieur_ Smith told me to only address you as _Mad_-."

Bronwyn furiously interrupted the girl before she could call her by that awful title. "Yeah well, _Monsieur_ _Dickhead_ isn't here for once, is he?" Bronwyn snarled, and was surprised to see the girl hide a smile behind her hand, her eyes had gleaming with amusement for a moment before she became serious. Apparently, she has the same opinion about Smith that I do, thought Bronwyn, heartened.

"Listen," the girl said, with a furtive glance over her shoulder to see if any of Smith's clones were within earshot. "I think I can help you."

"How?"

"I know someone who can help you get what you need."

"Like what?"

"Pills. Would you like me to get you some?"

Bronwyn's face lit up at this unexpected and very welcome news. "Are you fucking kidding me! Yes! Can your friend get me some percocets or oxycontin?"

"Certainly, _Madame_. How many would you like?"

"Fifty of each to start with, anyway. How much?"

The girl did a quick mental calculation. "Five hundred." Actually, it was more of a guess and the girl named a figure so exorbitant she was sure that Bronwyn would attempt to negotiate the price down to a more acceptable amount. It was common knowledge among the hotel staff that the man who had rented out the penthouse suite _and_ the entire floor below it was extremely wealthy and he was perfectly willing and able to pay any price to keep his lady friend safe. No one from the hotel had been able to even catch a glimpse of Bronwyn and it was rumoured that she had never left the hotel suite since Smith had her checked in, so it was with barely concealed curiosity that she looked at Bronwyn.

"Deal! How soon can I get them?"

"I seem to have forgotten the two boxes of shoes that _Monsieur_ Smith wanted you to have as well. I must go down and get them. I should be back within the hour," she said loud enough for her voice to carry to the door where a clone was watching both women with a vigilant eye. The copy was under strict orders to observe Bronwyn closely if she were in the company of anyone who might be a potential target for an agent to hijack into. "I need the money up front, though," she said in a whisper to Bronwyn.

Bronwyn grinned wickedly and went to get her purse. The only good thing I can say about Smith is that he is not stingy, she thought, taking several bills from the stack of one hundred dollar notes he had given her. She handed the money to the girl, who tucked the folded bills into her bosom, winked at Bronwyn conspiratorially, and left the room.

Just under an hour later, the woman returned with the promised goods. Bronwyn impatiently snatched the shoebox out of her hand and went to her bedroom, closing the door behind her. Opening the box, she removed the pills that had been hidden in the high-heeled leather pumps and she stared at the bottle for a long time.

It's been so long since I've taken any drugs, she thought. Not since I found out that I was pregnant, I think. She took a deep breath, shook a few tablets into her hand, and washed them down with a mouthful or two of wine.

It didn't take long for the narcotic effects of the pills to hit her and she fell backward on the bed in pleasure. Ah, drugs, my old friends, Bronwyn thought fuzzily, how I have missed you. By the time Smith knocked at her door nearly an hour later, she was more than a little stoned, to say the least.

"Come in," she said, happily.

"I just wanted to see if you liked the clothes that I had sent up?" As he entered, he did a cursory examination of the room, he could not help but notice that the boxes of clothes he had arranged to have sent up were unopened; however, the wastebasket was full of empty liquor bottles.

I'm as high as a fucking kite from drugs I bought with _your_ money, but you don't have to know that, she thought recklessly, looking directly at Smith with a defiant air and suppressing an overwhelming desire to thumb her nose at him.

"I saw them, Smith," she lied glibly. "They are lovely. Thank you."

She has _definitely_ been drinking more than usual, he thought, amused, or else she would've cursed at me by now.

She rose up off the bed, got to her feet and stumbled, and would have fallen if Smith had not caught her. He knew immediately that if he tried to put her on her feet again, she would only fall down again.

Therefore, he held her in his arms and waited for the inevitable explosion of her temper. However, it didn't happen. He expected her to react in revulsion to his touch and close proximity to her by shoving him away, but she did not. In fact, she didn't seem to mind the slightest bit that she was this close to him at all. Emboldened and encouraged by her lack of resistance to his touch, Smith surreptitiously shifted his hold on her so that one of his hands was firmly cupping her derrière, but Bronwyn never noticed.

"Whoops!" she giggled. "Good thing you have fast reflexes, Smith, or else I would have ended up on my ass. And you're strong too," she said, squeezing his forearm muscles and grinned at him appreciatively when she felt the strength within.

She _is_ drunk, thought Smith, bemused in spite of himself. She must have drunk it pretty quickly to be running low now, he thought. However, alcohol by itself could not bring about this amount of change in her demeanor towards me. It's almost as if…..he peered into her eyes and saw how small her pupils were. She's on something all right, and it's certainly not just alcohol. He analyzed her Matrix code and the data streams clearly showed that she was under the unmistakable influence of narcotics.

She caught him looking at her eyes and matched his expression by scowling back at him exaggeratedly.

"You're always so stern and sombre, Smith, you need to lighten up. Seriously." she said, before she started to giggle again. "Are you going to put me down or are you just going to stand here and hold me?"

I could hold you like this forever, he thought languorously, before he shook his head to clear his mind of even considering acting on any of the thoughts and ideas that were filling his head as he pondered her words. However, I have to admit that I _like_ seeing Bronwyn this way—happy, cheerful, and full of fun—and whatever it takes, I will see to it that she stays like this, for it seems that when she gets drunk or high, like she is now, she tolerates my presence much more than she would if she were sober.

I will take full advantage of her growing dependence on the drugs and alcohol that she feels she needs to make it through another day of existing without our daughter or Jones for that matter.

Perhaps, with enough time, she will be able to forget all about her affection for Jones and she will realize that she loves me. I want her to realize just how much I have grown to care for her.

Jones is gone, but I am here. She is too alive, too passionate, to continue to mourn for a phantom much longer. She is not aware that I've heard her moaning in her sleep several times; and from what I was able to ascertain from listening and observing her while she is sleeping, it isn't fear that causes her to cry out in the night, it is desire. She is used to having a man in her bed every night and being sexually satisfied quite often; her body still needs and demands fulfillment even if her mind wants nothing more than to grieve.

She is the kind of woman, I think, that once she has experienced and shared in the passion I feel for her, she will feel it as well. She will learn to love again; her heart will open to me and we can be together as we were meant to be.

And if I have to keep her inebriated or high-or both—until I achieve that goal then so be it, Smith thought to himself with a grim smile. It was too soon to act just yet, but he knew he would use the effects the intoxicants were having on Bronwyn to his advantage. However, to keep her in this state, he made a mental note to have the hotel fully stock the bar again.


	29. Submission

Submission

Disclaimer: I don't own the Matrix, blah blah blah.

Summary: Smith takes advantage of Bronwyn while her mind and body are under the effects of the dangerous combination of drugs and alcohol. Warning: this chapter is sexually explicit, but don't worry—it's consensual. You have been warned.

"Is it you?" Bronwyn whispered wonderingly, stroking her fingers lightly down Smith's cheek. It was pitch black in the room and in her inebriated and intoxicated state, time had been turned back and Jones was magically restored to her. Her child was dead, it was true; but the one man in the entire world who could help her assuage her grief and help her to feel love again, had returned.

Or so she thinks, Smith thought.

I know she is either drunk or stoned again, or else she would never let me get this close to her. But I do not care. When she is sober, all she seems to do is either weep for hours or swear at me whenever I am around her.

Because she has been so near to me this last week, always within my reach and within my sight, I find that I want her more than ever. Ever since that kiss she gave me the other night when she thought I was Jones…It was wonderful and passionate, it seemed like my body was on fire. It felt so good. But it was nothing compared to what I am feeling now.

"Is it you?" she repeated, when he did not answer her immediately.

"Yes, Bronwyn. I'm here."

"You left me and you never came back. I was alone and I lost my baby. Where were you?" she said, and Smith could detect all of her suppressed emotion and all of her grief expressed in that one, simple sentence.

"I had to leave; I had no choice, I'm sorry. But I'm here now," he said, soothingly as he spread his hands over her back and pulled Bronwyn closer.

"Don't leave me again."

"I will never leave you, I promise."

Her arms wound around his neck and she drew him closer to her, kissing him passionately. He groaned in pleasure and gave himself up to the sensations of bliss only she could make him feel.

For a brief moment, he debated within himself on whether to use the information in Jones' database regarding all the times he and Bronwyn had been intimate, but decided against it. I want her to love what _I_ am doing to please her, not simply pretend to be Jones and hear _his_ name being cried out when she climaxes. I want to hear _my_ name.

His hands roamed over Bronwyn's body hungrily, savoring the feel of her warm, soft flesh through the thin, silk nightshirt she had worn to bed. All that prohibited him from feeling her bare skin under his fingers was a few troublesome buttons, which he nimbly undid until she lay naked before him. The feeling of her unclothed body underneath his put all of Smith's senses into a tailspin until his entire universe was focused on the smell of her skin, breath, and the feel of her hair running through his fingers.

It wasn't enough that she was offering her body to him now, he wanted to hear it as well. He removed his mouth from hers and held her face in his hands.

"Bronwyn?"

"Mmm?"

"Tell me what you want."

Oh, Jones, she thought, almost tempted to giggle but stifled the urge. "What do you think I want, you big lug? I want you to make love to me," she replied huskily, her fingers busily undoing the buttons of his shirt and when it was completely open, she ran her hands over his firm and well-muscled chest, growling in admiration as she did so, "but before you do that, I want you to do _you-know-what_ to me first."

Smith felt his face and body suffuse with heat as a mental, graphic image of what she was referring to flashed before his eyes.

"C'mon Jones, you know what I'm talking about," Bronwyn said, coyly. "I can't help it if you are so damn good at it."

Smith pulled away from her, partly in jealousy, partly in offense. It is _him_ she wants to make love to her, not me, he thought.

_But does that really matter?_, a part of his mind argued. _You've always wanted her, you know that. You are here with her now, in her bed, and she wants you to make love to her. So what if she thinks you are Jones? You want to be with her, don't you? _

Bronwyn made a soft, wordless noise of protest in her throat when she felt him withdraw his body from hers.

"No, don't go," she whispered, trying to pull him back to her. "Stay here," she mumbled, barely audibly. "I don't want to be alone anymore…I need you."

_See,_ Smith's mind pointed out triumphantly. _She wants you to stay with her. And if you make love to her now, she will be more than willing. She won't lay there like a cold fish like she did the first time you had her. _

The idea of Bronwyn accepting and welcoming his touch and caresses, as well as giving him her own, made Smith's blood seem to boil inside his body and race through his veins.

_Take her, _his mind exhorted_. Fuck her until her eyes roll back in her head. Take her now!_

His sense of urgency to have her again, to posses her and make her body join with his own was heightened to a degree he never thought possible. However, he reminded himself to be a tender and skillful lover; he resolved that he would be gentle while he was intimate with her and there would be no force, no rape this time.

I must prove to her than I am a better man, a better lover than Jones could ever be. He quickly downloaded all of his available files regarding various human sexual techniques and practices; selecting and scanning the ones that he thought Bronwyn would most enjoy.

Smith also retrieved the files from Jones' memory banks on the topic of all the times he and Bronwyn had been intimate. Smith smiled knowingly to himself as he discovered that the only thing that Jones had not done to Bronwyn-though she had asked and even begged with him on many occasions-was to penetrate her using his fingers. Of course, Jones never complied with her request and Smith knew the reason why. Because of that incident in his past, he could not bring himself to do so, in case he ended up hurting Bronwyn. Accessing other directories in his former colleague's data storage, Smith was impressed in spite of himself when he saw how creative Jones had learned to become while making love to a very pregnant Bronwyn.

But she is not pregnant anymore, and therefore has no limitations on what she can or cannot do—or have done to her-in bed, he thought rather smugly. Jones had to work around the confines of Bronwyn's pregnancy but Ido not.

"Bron," Smith had been about to ask if this was what she really wanted, but stopped when he felt her hands begin to tug awkwardly at his belt trying to loosen it, and his body answered that question for him. In no time at all, he hastily removed the remainder of his clothes and he turned her over on her back so he could nuzzle the sensitive area of her neck. Bronwyn moaned softly and turned her head to the other side so he could have complete access to all of her neck.

Bronwyn inhaled her breath suddenly and Smith chuckled softly to himself when he felt her reaction to his attention he paid on her skin with his lips and teeth as he playfully nipped at the tender flesh.

"Suckle me," she implored, when she felt his breath on her shoulder and groaned in delight and satisfaction when his burning lips encircled and enveloped her taut and eager nipple, while his hand caressed her breast. She threaded her fingers through his hair in sheer enjoyment when he obeyed; her passion and desire growing within her with each passing moment that he skillfully tormented her like this.

He felt himself getting completely and thoroughly hard in response to Bronwyn's sighs and moans of delight that increased in volume and frequency because of the sensations his actions was igniting in her.

Persephone was right, he thought, intimacy that is shared is much more pleasurable than taking by force.

When he thought she had had enough of this exquisite torture, Smith stopped what he had been doing and decided to turn his attention to another part of her body. Removing his mouth from her nipple, he smiled to himself when he heard her groan of disappointment turn into a whimper of anticipation when she realized where his mouth was headed as he trailed a series of slow, lingering kisses down towards her belly.

Bronwyn gasped sharply and unconsciously grabbed a fistful of the sheet when she felt one, then two of his fingers enter her and begin thrusting slowly inside. Not giving her any time to deal with the sensations he knew he was arousing in her, Smith used his muscular thumb begin to gently massage and stimulate her swollen clitoris. Bronwyn arched her back, her body writhed in response to what he was doing to her; her teeth clenched, her breaths were short and rapid, and her hips began to counter-thrust against him, deepening his digital penetration.

"Please, don't stop, for God's sake," she begged, desperate for him to continue.

Smith had no intention of stopping then or at any time, for that matter. He could tell she was very close to her climax and when he judged the time was right, he replaced his thumb with his mouth, placing her clitoris between his lips and began to gently suckle it as he had done with her nipple.

With a great deal of surprise, Smith found that he rather liked the taste and feel of the secretions Bronwyn's body released during her heightened sexual state of near-orgasm. Her moans were now long and loud and her breathing was rapid and shallow. Smith knew that her orgasm was imminent and he redoubled his efforts to ensure that Bronwyn would experience sexual fulfillment on a level that would surpass anything Jones had given her.

Let's see how you react to this, he thought, and drove his fingers inside of her as far as they would go, then withdrew them until they were almost out. He repeated this process of insertion and withdrawal, simulating the act of intercourse while simultaneously increasing the pressure on her engorged centre. Bronwyn came almost immediately afterward and shrieked as wave after wave of almost unbearable pleasure flooded over every nerve ending she possessed, right down to the very fiber of her soul.

She was right, he thought amused, she _is_ loud when she comes. Smith waited until the spasms inside of her stopped contracting against his fingers and her climax was spent.

"Now it's my turn," he murmured.

Before Bronwyn had time to come down from her sexual high and notice or realize anything of the world around her, Smith had moved his body between her legs and with one smooth movement, he entered her. The sensations of finally being inside of this woman whom he had wanted and desired for so long almost caused him to ejaculate immediately, but by the sheer force of an iron will, Smith held off his own rapidly approaching climax so he could thoroughly enjoy and relish in the sweet sense of satisfaction and pleasure he was receiving, as well as savoring and anticipating his imminent release.

His arms tightened around her and Bronwyn could feel him begin to thrust inside of her, beginning the age-old rhythm of man with woman. Two bodies fused as one, limbs entwined. Procreation and recreation combined together in one passionate act.

Bronwyn had only copulated with Jones in this position three times-because Jones' sheer body weight and Bronwyn's advanced pregnancy rendered it advisable for a change in their position so no harm would come to her unborn baby. Even so, Bronwyn knew in her heart that something didn't feel as it should be. Something has changed, she realized. Everything about him is different—the way it feels when he is inside of me, the texture of his hair, even the smell of his skin. It didn't seem like Jones' sizeable form on hers, this man was not as well built or nearly as brawny, but he had a slighter physique, and his weight was lighter.

It's almost as if there is another man doing this to me, not Jones. But how can that be, her mind questioned, trying to fight the effects of all the intoxicants in her system and bring some clarity to her confused consciousness. Who else _could _it be? If I didn't know better, Bronwyn pondered, it was almost like….Smith.

"NO!" Bronwyn screamed, trying desperately to get him off of her, but it was useless. She scratched and clawed at his skin frantically, even slapping and punching him where she could, but he still continued to thrust inside her, as slowly and as steadily as when he first began.

Bronwyn breathed in sharply when her body began to respond against her will. This can't be happening, she thought desperately. I can't be enjoying this—it's not possible. However, she was getting a great deal of pleasure from what he was doing to her and they both knew it. She froze into stillness, when she heard his voice murmuring in her ear.

"Let yourself go, Bronwyn, let yourself feel this, don't hold back," Smith said softly and hoarsely in her ear-his voice betrayed the effort he was making to hold off his own approaching orgasm until she had been satisfied first-knowing that she was on the brink of hers.

"Smith, no," she moaned in protest then she cried out when she felt her release spread itself through her body. She raked her fingernails down Smith's back as she experienced a sharp and intense burst of pleasure and as it ebbed, Bronwyn felt him suddenly clutch her closer to him and groan deeply when he came.


	30. The Morning After

The Morning After 

Disclaimer: I do not own the Matrix or anything else, for that matter.

Summary: Hurt and angry by Bronwyn's harsh words the next morning, Smith lashes out in the only way he knows how, forcing Bronwyn into a corner from which there is only one way out.

A/N: I owe a great debt of thanks to Cecilia for supplying me with the well-written and highly erotic description of a certain sexual act-she knows the one I mean... ;-) Hint: it's the one that is written in italics…Enjoy, and let me know what you think!

The next morning, Bronwyn opened her bloodshot, gritty eyelids and saw Smith sitting on the other side of the bed with his back to her and he was putting on his shirt. She widened her eyes in surprise when she noticed deep scratch marks down his back. The skin had been broken and in a few places, she saw dried blood.

How on earth did he get those scratches on his back, she wondered. Then she realized that there was only one way a man could receive those marks on his back and that was if the woman under him…I couldn't have done that. We didn't make love—did we?

By this time, he had turned his head and saw her watching him. His face was inscrutable as always, but there was something about him that was not the same as usual. There was something different about his eyes and the expression she saw in them now. It was almost as if he was hoping for something. Perhaps seeking some kind of reaction from her on this, _the morning after_? Wondering what she would say to him, now that she was awake and had realized what had happened between them the night before?

For his part, Smith finally knew the meaning of the term "on pins and needles." He saw comprehension of what had transpired the night before dawn on Bronwyn's face. She had remembered everything. She knew, without a doubt, that they had made love and that it had been consensual. However, the bitterest pill she had to swallow was the fact that she had enjoyed it.

But how is she feeling, he wondered. Why isn't she saying anything? Watching her face closely for any sign of a reaction, Smith was relieved and encouraged when she blushed and turned her head away as she drew up the sheet to cover herself.

Her sudden attempt at modesty made him almost smile when he compared her present actions with her wild sexual abandon of the night before.

A lady in the parlour and a whore in the bedroom, as the old saying went.

But, no. Bronwyn had _not_ been a whore, he corrected himself. She had behaved like a woman who enjoyed the attentions of her lover so much that she had left her marks on him while she was in the throes of uncontrollable ecstasy.

Ecstasy that _I_ made her feel and I know she loved what I did to her last night, he thought with more than a little pride. I can still hear her cry out as she came. Twice. She wanted me as much as I wanted her, and last night proved that with a little time and patience on my part at least—and drugs and alcohol on hers-she seems to have forgotten all about Jones, or else she never would have enjoyed our encounter to the extent that she did. It took a while, but she realizes that it is me she loves now, and no one else. I need not worry any longer about the ghost of Jones coming between us in the night.

"Good morning," he murmured.

He caught her eying the scratches on his body and a leisurely, licentious grin spread over his face. "They are not self-inflicted, Bronwyn, I can assure you. You were quite the little wildcat in bed last night, but I didn't mind. I'm glad you enjoyed yourself. And if you are up for a repeat performance this morning," he said in a drawling tone, brazenly eyeing her with slowly awakening desire, "I would be more than delighted to accommodate you."

Bronwyn trembled slightly at the look in his eyes and clutched the sheet even closer to herself as if that would protect her from his gaze. Smith smiled wickedly when he saw the gesture. "I've left some marks on you as well, as you will discover when you are taking your shower."

Bronwyn turned her head away, her cheeks burning in shame but she said nothing. Her back was to Smith and he was not able to see her face. Leaning over, he saw that her eyes were shut tightly. His hand caressed her shoulder to get her attention, but she wrenched herself away from his touch.

"What's wrong?" he asked, hurt and puzzled.

"Don't touch me. Just leave me the hell alone," she snapped.

"You didn't seem to mind me touching you last night," Smith stated angrily, "and I seem to recall you begging me not to stop when I had my fingers inside of you. They were thrusting _deep_ inside of you, as a matter of fact."

It was not possible for Bronwyn to turn a deeper shade of pink, and even her ears went red as she listened to his statement. She tried to react as if his words had had no effect on her, and she snarled her reply with the first words that came to her mind. "Yeah, well, I was bombed out of my mind, in case you've forgotten. I didn't know what I was doing—besides, I thought you were Jones. He was a better lover on his worst day than you were last night," Bronwyn sneered, forcing self-assurance into her words that she was far from feeling. It was a bald-faced lie, but she would have done anything rather than admit it.

"Is that a fact?" Smith replied coldly and his eyes darkened for a moment with pain. She had hurt him more intensely than she would ever realize with that one, simple sentence, but he knew the perfect way that would make her pay dearly for her thoughtless, callous words. "Well, if you managed to get so drunk that you were unable to tell who is in your bed and who is not, then perhaps I will just have to stop the hotel from sending up any more liquor, won't I?" he snapped. He tried, in vain, to allow his anger to wash away all the traces of the emotional and even physical agony he was now feeling, but her words had wounded him too deeply to be erased so easily.

"You wouldn't dare!" Bronwyn said, and Smith could hear the panic and alarm in her voice. He was aware of how quickly she had become accustomed to drowning her troubles in a bottle of booze; dulling her senses so that they were befuddled to the point of happy oblivion, and that if she were to suddenly go "cold turkey," it would be a serious hardship on her mind and body.

"Watch me," he snarled, as he picked up the phone on the nightstand. Bronwyn felt the blood drain from her face as she listened to him speaking to the clerk at the front desk, giving the order that no more alcohol was to be delivered up to the penthouse.

"And furthermore," he stated to Bronwyn when he hung up, "I'll be making sure that you are no longer supplied with pills of any kind. In case your mind is still too stupefied with the after-effects of all those drugs you've been taking, I'll make this very simple: you are now cut off and you will soon be feeling the unpleasant symptoms of withdrawal."

Bronwyn closed her eyes in horror. Withdrawal. A ten-letter word that perfectly epitomized hell on earth. She had gone through withdrawal on a number of occasions in the past because a lack of money and the primal need to eat had forced her to sort out her priorities. The memories of those experiences were terrible, but it made her realize that once you are an addict, all the rehabilitation in the world will not change the fact that you will _always_ be an addict. Even though Bronwyn had only been using either pills or alcohol for a little less than two weeks, her body had become all too used to them and the escape they offered from dealing with her memories.

"Goddamn it, you can't do this to me, Smith!"

"I _am_ doing this, and there is nothing you can do about it. And I will continue to do so until-."

"Until when?" she interrupted.

"Until I damn well please, that's how long. I am through coddling you, Bronwyn. I am tired of your lack of gratitude for everything I've done for you, everything I've given you. Soon, you will learn to appreciate me and show me the proper respect. However, I am not completely heartless. I am a reasonable man. I am aware you drink as much as you do because you are mourning the loss of our child, and I know better than anyone else does about how much that can hurt. As a result, I am prepared to offer you a fair and just compromise."

"What are you talking about?" Bronwyn asked unwillingly. Instead of answering, he sat down beside her on the bed and lightly trailed his fingers through her hair. He moved it out of the way so he could nuzzle her neck and shoulder without impediment. "I think you can hazard a guess, can't you, Bronwyn?" he said sensuously, his breath hot and quick on her neck, while his lips seemed to scorch her skin with the intense heat of his lust.

She swallowed and turned her head away. It was worse than I could ever have imagined, she thought, revolted. He wants me to sleep with him in exchange for the drugs and booze.

"Yes, you understand me now, don't you?" he purred, his voice low and sultry, satisfied and secure in his mastery over her. "If you please me in every way that I wish, then you will receive some pills and alcohol in exchange for your _services_, shall we say. But let's be clear about something," he said, jerking her chin upward so that he could look into her eyes and drive his point home, "you will receive them only _after_ I have been satisfied, not before. I will not have a doped-up, alcohol-saturated whore in my bed. For that is what you will be, Bronwyn: my whore. And while you are in my bed, you will not just lie there-you will participate fully and eagerly in whatever act I choose.

If you are good to me, then I will be good to you. If I am displeased in any way, I will reduce your allotment; however, if you please me, I may even increase the amount, if I am feeling generous or if having you was especially enjoyable. It all depends on you." He rose off the bed and stood in front of her.

"I think we will begin now. Stand up," he ordered. When she did not comply, he forced her to her feet by yanking her upward by her hair. "Rule number 1: when I tell you to do something, you will obey _immediately_. I do not wish to repeat myself." He ripped the sheet out of her grasp and threw it away. When she was standing nude before him, he continued. "That's much better. Kiss me," he ordered, and he lowered his voice to a deep growl, "put your arms around me, and kiss me." He smirked when he saw a flicker of fear pass over her face before he lowered his lips to hers.

Bronwyn tried not to draw back when she felt his tongue push its way past her teeth and deep into her mouth until she felt it touch her own. Her mind and body felt encased in ice and mechanically she went through the motions of kissing him. She was heartened when he groaned in pleasure and his breathing quickened.

"You learn quickly, Bronwyn. Very good." He reached into his pocket, and removed a small orange bottle of pills. He took two tablets out, and handed them to her with a self-satisfied grin. She slapped his hand away, scattering the pills on the floor. "I won't be your whore, Smith! I've gone through withdrawal more times than I can count. I've done it before and I can do it again. Keep your damn drugs."

He shrugged unconcernedly, as he bent to pick up the pills from the floor. "As you wish. When you change your mind, you know where to find me. You may refuse them now," he said knowingly, "but eventually you will come begging to me on your knees when your body craves and begs for release from the grief and painful memories that still haunt you at night."

Bronwyn's knees would no longer support her and she sank to the ground. He was right. Her nightmares had never gone away, and it was only because of sleeping pills that she had been able to get any rest at all.

He sat back on his haunches before her. "All of this could have been avoided, you know. All you had to do this morning was be nice, or at the very least, civil to me when you woke up. But, no. You couldn't. Or should I say, you _wouldn't_. I went to a lot of trouble last night to ensure that you were satisfied, but you spurned me, you rejected me and you are going to pay for that."

He stood up, watching Bronwyn, who was still crumpled into a ball at his feet, with detached and impassive interest. Grovelling at my feet—how completely appropriate. I will never let you know how much you hurt me this morning, Bronwyn, Smith thought to himself. "You know, for a brief moment this morning, I thought we were making a fresh start, a new beginning. But you ruined everything. I never was as gentle with any other woman as I was with you last night. I went out of my way to please you and you thank me by spitting in my face and lying to me. I was the best you've ever had and I have the scratches on my back to prove it. You can lie to yourself all you want, Bronwyn, but deep inside, you know better than anyone how much you enjoyed it," Smith said quietly, before he turned on his heel and left the room.

As soon as Smith had left, Bronwyn staggered to the bathroom, locking the door behind her. Once inside, she hesitated before she went to the mirror and looked deeply at her image. She hated and despised the woman who was looking back at her. Of all the hate she had ever experienced, the greatest was that to herself, as she looked at herself; her face flushed, her heart pounding, and her genitalia tingling from the memory of not one, but _two_ complete, shuddering and fulfilling orgasms that she had had last night.

I enjoyed it. I enjoyed it when Smith was touching me; I loved the touch of his hands on my flesh, the feel of his mouth and lips on my skin and especially when he kissed me there. I _revelled_ in it! I _hungered _for more! I wanted it, I wanted _him_ even after I found out it wasn't Jones who was doing all those things to me, but Smith.

_You are a whore_, her mind accused her, while she continued to stare at herself in the mirror. _Smith was right. Smith was right all along-you are nothing but a cheap slut off the streets who sold herself to him—all because he gave you drugs and booze, not to mention designer clothes as well. All he has to do now is wave a few pills under your nose and you will eagerly spread your legs for him._

No, I would never do that.

_You already have._

What have I done? A sense of shame and complete and total humiliation overcame her. Huge, gulping sobs and an unspeakable sense of pain and loneliness engulfed her. "How could you leave me like that, Jones?" she cried out at her reflection. "Why? You were supposed to protect me! You were supposed to keep me safe! Now, Smith is here and you are gone." She racked her brain for anything she could remember, anything that would dispute the lie that she had known it was him and not Jones that her body craved the touch for. But nothing came to her mind.

_You knew it was Smith, and you didn't care. You let him touch you, kiss you and do God knows what else that you don't remember. You welcomed him in bed. You received him inside of you, and eagerly at that. All you wanted was a man in your bed and it did not matter who it was, although technically, Smith is not a man after all, is he?_

The memory of what Jones had told her about the Matrix, after they had made love the night he died, caused her to visualize scenes of dreadful imagery. It really was true, all of it. Humans were grown in pods and no longer masters of their environment; they were slaves now, at the mercy of super-intelligent machines that ruthlessly ruled over them and used them as an energy source.

It did not matter to her that Jones had also been a machine, a program. To Bronwyn, he would always be a gentle and warm man who loved her as deeply and as passionately as she loved him. A human. But as for Smith…In her mind's eye, she tried to imagine Smith's true form and a scene from a movie she saw a long time ago flashed before her eyes, making her dizzy with horror and nausea. The movie featured a foreign-born, big-name action movie star-who in his later life, would turn his attention to politics and become future governor of California-in his best-known and most famous role.

At first glance, his character appeared to be a man, but underneath the skin and flesh was a monster comprised of steel, cables, and circuits; a cyborg that time-traveled to the past to eliminate the last threat to the machines' successful extinction of the human race in the future.

Was that how Smith and Jones really appeared? Did they, too, have a human shell that covered a skeleton of metal? If she could claw Smith's skin deeply enough, would it fall away to reveal the mechanism that might lie below the surface?

Last night I was fucked by the worst machine of them all and I loved it, she thought, sickened to the depths of her soul.

_I'm sure Jones would be touched at your period of mourning_, a part of her mind told her contemptuously. _Less than two weeks after his death, you willingly and eagerly give his killer-who is also the man who raped you in case you have forgotten-your most intimate favours; and now that Smith has had you, nothing will stop him from taking you as many times as he wants. _

No, that isn't true. I will not let him, I would rather die first. The solution to her dilemma was so simple. Of course! The answer was there, right in front of her and she wondered why she had not thought of it before: my death will stop him.

She hurled the crystal drinking goblet at the mirror, shattering it completely and sending pieces of it all over the marble countertop of the bathroom vanity. She picked up one of the larger shards of glass in her hand and made a fist as hard as she could with the other, and calculated how much force would be required to inflict irrevocable and more importantly, mortal damage to the veins on her wrist. For a long time she stood rooted to the spot, surrounded by glittering glass, while she tried to summon the courage that would enable her to slice her wrist deep enough to end her life. But she could not proceed.

_Coward, _her face in the mirror taunted her. _If you've seen it once, you've seen it a hundred times: slitting one's wrists is merely a call for help, not an actual intention of killing oneself. How many times haven't you seen your hooker friends try to die this way? Did it ever work? No._

But what else can I try, Bronwyn demanded from her reflection. How about if I stockpile the pills that he gives me until I have enough to overdose and die?

_That is no good either and this is why: Smith is always checking up on you and he is able to see what you've put into your system. If he discovers what you've done, he will use any and all means necessary to get the drugs out of you, one way or another. After all, he did assimilate your doctor and that clone will know exactly what to do to save your miserable and pathetic life._

Tell me what _will_ work, then!

_You are on the 45th floor of a hotel, and your room has a private balcony. The only way you can end your life beyond all recovery is if you go over the edge. No doctor in the world will be able to save you once your body hits the concrete._

Bronwyn was appalled at the idea of ending her life in this manner, but she knew in her heart that it was the only way out. If I do not, my life will be reduced to being at Smith's beck and call in bed, doing whatever twisted and repulsive act he wishes to have performed on him. How can I do this? What must I do in order to succeed?

_What you need is to get him to leave the building. It does not have to be for a long period of time, just long enough so that even if he foresees your intentions, all of his agent speed, reflexes and abilities won't be able to save you once you begin to fall. If you have enough of a head start on him, he will not be able to grab hold of you in mid-air to stop your descent, and neither he nor any of his copies will be able to move fast enough and catch you before you strike the pavement. That is why it is imperative that you make him leave._

I don't want to die, thought Bronwyn desperately. What if I can't bring myself to go through with it?

_You must. Remember what Smith told you that day you badgered him for answers until he told you everything about the Machines and what they wanted to do to you? He told you that the Architect had had your genetic and hormonal makeup altered so that you will never have another menstrual cycle; but on the other hand, the length of time that you would be fertile during the month would be triple that of a normal human female. Because you allowed Smith to have sex with you last night, you may already be pregnant again._

While a part of her still-grieving broken heart and mind was overjoyed at the thought of expecting again-for if it were true, she would be able to replace the baby she had lost with a new life-the practical and realistic side of her nature examined the ramifications of giving Smith another child and she shrunk from the idea. I do not have a choice, Bronwyn thought, I _must_ do this, and I have to do it soon or else I am lost, or even worse, if I conceive again. She turned away from the mirror and walked over to the large marble Turkish tub that was sunk into the floor, opening the taps and letting the hot water fill the tub almost to its brim before she stepped inside.

Bronwyn lay back and let the Jacuzzi jets ease and soothe her jangled nerves and overwrought muscles. A sigh of contentment escaped her lips as she lay in the swirling water, gradually becoming relaxed and calm. Glancing down at her body, she noticed a large red mark on the inside of her upper left thigh. Peering at it more closely, she realized that this mark was what Smith was referring to earlier this morning.

She let out a moan of longing and desire and her body was inundated with sexual heat as she remembered what she had been feeling while Smith was orally satisfying her last night. Idly her fingers brushed against her pubic mound and she was startled to discover how wet she already was. It had been a long time since Bronwyn had touched and pleasured herself in this manner, and while the previous night's extremely satisfying sexual experience was still fresh in her mind, she closed her eyes, drew up her knees, and parted her legs so she could have greater access to her genitalia. Bronwyn emitted a gasp of surprise as she discovered that by opening her legs, it enabled a stream of hot, but not too hot, bubbling water to lightly dance over her clitoris and vagina, giving her an unexpected rush of delight. Without a second thought, she parted her legs even further, savouring the feel of the churning foam of the water swirling over her nether region, becoming more and more aroused with each passing moment.

Bronwyn reached down between her legs and smiled slightly when she felt her clitoris was already engorged and swollen, eager for further stimulation. With practised fingers, she slowly slid her forefinger along her outer folds, taking her time in becoming re-acquainted with the digital movements that would eventually bring her satisfaction. Lightly tracing her inner labia now, Bronwyn felt the warm and tender flesh of her most private region tingle in response and she groaned in anticipation. Not wishing to delay her pleasure any longer, she lightly touched her clitoris and closed her eyes, resting her head against the rim of the tub as she stimulated herself.

This is what Smith did to me last night, Bronwyn thought hazily, her fingers moving faster over the small, sensitive nub as her breathing quickened. I would rather die than admit it to him, but he was better than Jones ever was when he touched me like this. She groaned with desire as she recalled the former agent's ministrations of the evening before. Every single twitch, every little movement he made with his hot, wet tongue and skilful fingers that she could remember filled her with feverish hunger for sexual satisfaction and brought her closer to her climax. The very memory of his long, capable fingers thrusting inside of her while his mouth and lips enveloped her womanhood, stimulated her to a degree she never would have thought possible, caused her to cry out as her orgasm rushed over and through her excited body as thoroughly and completely now as it had done last night.

llllll

Bronwyn was towelling her hair dry when she went into her bedroom and stood stock-still when she saw one of Smith's other selves standing in front of the bar, filling his arms with the liquor bottles that the hotel had sent up the night before, until all the shelves were empty. She blushed furiously when she realized that he had probably heard her come when she was in the tub and it made her angrier than ever. You miserable motherfucker, she seethed, staring angrily at the copy's back as she watched him complete his task. Smith was telling me the truth when he threatened to take my drinks away.

Bronwyn forced herself to be calm and appear completely uninterested in what the copy was doing. If I let _it_ know how upset I am because of what it is doing, then it won't be long before Smith knows how much this is getting to me. I have to make him believe that I simply don't care. The copy finished his task and left the room, barely glancing at the still-naked form of Bronwyn.

Damn it, I could really use a little something to make me feel better right now she thought, looking at the now-empty shelves with longing. Would it really be so bad if I did what Smith wanted, she wondered. Not intercourse due to the risk of pregnancy, but what if I pleased him orally? I have performed that particular service on too many men to keep track of since I was almost fourteen years old, and Smith would be no different from any of the others. Her thoughts began to wander as a prophetic vision of that possible turn of events filled her mind…

_Goddamn you, she fumed as she heard Smith enter her bedroom. Bronwyn still remained seated at her dressing-table, watched in the mirror as he came up behind her, and bent his head to nuzzle her neck. She cringed when she felt his lips touch her skin and he murmured approvingly when he inhaled the perfume she had chosen to wear._

"_Then we have a deal, Bronwyn?"_

"_Yes—I give you what you want, and you give me what you promised. Don't worry, Smith, you won't be disappointed, I give you my word," Bronwyn replied. I deserve to get an Oscar nomination for Best Actress for the performance I am going to give tonight, she thought ruefully. She looked at her reflection and her eyes met Smith's in the mirror and she reached for the switch that would turn the lights off, but Smith stopped her from following through on her intention._

"_No, no, don't do that-I want all the lights on, Bronwyn. I want to see as well as feel everything that you are going to do to me. I wouldn't miss watching this for anything in the world," Smith crooned seductively. "One other thing I should mention before you get started—you will swallow everything I give you or the deal is off. Do you understand?"_

"_There aren't enough words in the Oxford English Dictionary to express just how much I hate you right now, Smith," Bronwyn hissed._

_He chuckled deep in his throat, pleased with himself. "Save some of that fiery Irish passion of yours for our encounter," he said, twisting her arm behind her back she was forced to leave her chair and go to her knees in front of him. "I want you to be as uncomfortable as possible, while I, on the other hand, get to watch every move you make. Begin now." This promises to be _very_ interesting, he thought as he watched every move she made being replicated in reverse in the dressing-table mirror. Now I understand why some humans wish to have mirrored ceilings while they perform sexual acts on each other—it is extremely erotic and sensual to watch a woman, especially this Irish-American hellion, giving pleasure like this._

_Ok, girl, Bronwyn told herself, taking a deep breath to calm and steady her nerves. You have done this before to worse men in even worse places than on your knees in the bedroom of an 8500 a night penthouse suite. You can get through this._

_Bronwyn closed her eyes and tried to muster up all of her skills in pleasing men in this most intimate and personal act of them all. In her mind's eye, she pictured that it was Jones and not Smith that she was performing this act upon and slowly reached out to place her hand on Smith's aching crotch. Methodically, she unzipped his pants as she continued to keep her eyes closed, focusing her mind on thoughts of Jones and how much he enjoyed this act when she performed it on him. _

_Bronwyn tentatively slid her hand into Smith's trousers and pulled out his penis. She hesitated for a few seconds, before she closed her mind and opened her mouth to take him in. When she closed her lips around him, Smith's groans were guttural and low. He grit his teeth as Bronwyn began to slide her mouth up and down his shaft, then she paused so that she can swirl her tongue the engorged head, lapping up the pre-cum that had been discharged from it. Then she took him fully in her mouth again, applying suction as she did so. This caused Smith to cry out in pleasure and he could not take his eyes away from the mirror, watching with voyeuristic delight as she continued to suck him off. The sight of Bronwyn's beautiful mouth on his sexual organ was almost too much for him to take. He started to thrust his penis into her mouth in time to her movements on him. Bronwyn's hands reached up and undid his belt, allowing his pants to fall down to his ankles. She then reached underneath him and started to stimulate his scrotum, caressing his balls as she licked and sucked his penis. Smith was now at the point of no return, his legs were taut with tension and his breathing was ragged. Beads of sweat had now broken out on his forehead as he buried his long, dexterous fingers in Bronwyn's hair with the thumb of one hand on her throat so that he could feel her swallow. Then finally, he shouted in ecstasy as he exploded in her mouth, sending a rush of hot jism to the back of her throat. Smith continued to ram his cock into her as he rode out his intense orgasm, crying out her name over and over again. _

_llllll_

_Afterward, Bronwyn was glad that her hair covered her face when she rose from her aching knees and got to her feet. No power on earth could make her look into Smith's eyes, for the scorn and contempt she knew was present on his face would have been too much to bear. Before Smith could even open his eyes, she had already hurried into the bathroom and slammed the door shut behind her. Bronwyn opened the cold-water sink tap to full flow so that even if Smith were listening at the door, he would not be able to tell what she was doing. Hastily she opened and searched through all the drawers of the vanity until she found what she was looking for: mouthwash. She tipped the bottle and drank it, gulping down mouthfuls at a time. I know there is a warning on the bottle not to do this, but I don't care if it kills me. I will not look at or even speak to Smith until after I have cleansed and rid myself of the taste of his come, or whatever polite, politically correct society wishes to call semen these days._

_Inevitably, her stomach rebelled against the intentional intake of the large amount of mouthwash she had consumed and forced Bronwyn to vomit repeatedly into the toilet until her stomach had been completely emptied. For what seemed like hours, she sat on the freezing, mosaic tile floor, resting her forehead against the cool porcelain of the toilet. Better out than in I suppose, she thought wryly. At least everything I had to swallow is no longer in my system and she was tempted to laugh at the absurdity of the situation. _

_A short time later, she heard the bathroom door open she saw a pair of perfectly buffed and spotless pair of expensive, Italian black leather shoes come into her field of vision. Bronwyn scoffed to herself when she looked up and saw that not so much as a hair was out of place on Smith's person. His suit was impeccable as always and his manner and mood were the same—cold and implacable. No one looking at you now would guess that fifteen minutes ago your eyes were rolling back in your head as you received the best blowjob of your life, Bronwyn thought angrily. "What do you want now, Smith?"_

"_Nothing. I only wanted to tell you that I have kept my promise and your payment is on the nightstand," Smith said curtly, before a vulgar grin spread over his handsome face. "You will find that as a result of your skill, I've been a little more _generous_ than usual." _

_Bronwyn lowered her eyes in shame and degradation and did not look up at him again when he left, but she waited until she heard her bedroom door close before she got up and went to claim her hard-earned dividend. In her past life, all the times she had awoken to discover her client of the evening gone from her bed and her payment sitting on the top of her dresser, never made her feel as used and dirty as she felt now when she saw six pills along with the bottle of her favourite spirits beside them on the table…_

Oh God, no, Bronwyn thought, shaking her head trying to clear it from her awful premonition. I could never live with myself if I had to suffer through that humiliation; no amount of pills or money is worth going through that. No, I know what I must do. All I need now is time to think and the perfect opportunity in which to act.


	31. The Last Worthless Evening

The Last Worthless Evening

Summary: The thoughts and actions of Bronwyn on the last night of her life.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Matrix or any of the characters in the movies. The lyrics to "The Last Worthless Evening" by Don Henley have been used without permission.

Once he had left, Bronwyn breathed easier. It had been a simple matter to get Smith to leave her by herself; all she had had to do was tell him that there was only one bakery in the city that had made her favourite New York-style cheesecake, and conveniently, the store was located on the extreme edge of the city limits. With any luck, he would be gone for at least twenty to thirty minutes and that would give her time to think and act without interruption.

Smith had wanted to send one of his other selves to get it for her, but she told him that she and Jones knew where this place was to be found, and since Smith had claimed more than once that he had retained all of Jones' memories, she challenged him to prove it to her once and for all by finding the bakery and getting what she had requested.

Bronwyn cringed when she remembered what had happened the night before between herself and Smith. She had been half-asleep and thought Jones was the one in bed with her only to discover that she was in Smith's arms and he had been the one that had made love to her.

The memory of this morning, discovering that it had been Smith instead of Jones in her bed last night, made her nauseous and ill if she allowed herself to think about it. I could have lived with what happened between us, Bronwyn thought, but what I _cannot_ live with is the knowledge that I took such pleasure in our lovemaking to such an extent I would never have dreamed possible and I am certain that Smith knows it too.

I cannot go on living like this, she thought. Always being watched by Smith or one of his other selves, always in his company, never allowed outside the hotel suite even for a moment…I am his prisoner. And on top of everything, he had asked the hotel staff not to send up any more liquor and he took away all of my pills. He said he would return both to me if I submitted myself to him, willingly and without reserve, to do with as he pleases.

I would rather die than allow a repeat performance of last night to happen again; to wake up and find him next to me, knowing full well that I had sold myself to yet another buyer in return for mind-numbing substances. What is even more repulsive is the possibility of my body betraying me like it did last night; I cannot bear the thought of it welcoming his touch and caresses in the middle of the night when I am at my weakest and most vulnerable. Despite the fact that I hate him for everything and everyone he has taken from me, I have to acknowledge that I enjoyed everything he did to me last night. The aftermath of the mutual passion that we shared in the dark, coupled with the ugly regret and guilt that revealed itself to me this morning in the light of day, made me realize that our being together must _never_ happen again.

With great difficulty, Bronwyn removed what could have been disappointment from her mind and focused on what she had to do, and do soon, if she had any hope of succeeding. No. I have to do it. But first, I need to clear my head before I can think properly and with his copies always standing guard outside my room preventing me from leaving without his permission, there is only one place in this suite where I can do that.

She got out of bed and put a CD in the player on the nightstand and as her selected song played, she went to the balcony, opened the sliding doors, and stepped outside. The view from the penthouse suite of the five-star hotel that Smith had brought her to was usually breath-taking, but tonight, the combination of the dark cloudy sky and the night lights from the city was gloomy and matched her mood perfectly.

She inhaled the brisk night air deeply and she felt the conflicting desire to continue living race through her. To be even thinking of dying in May, with the budding of new life everywhere she looked, broke what remained of her heart.

_I know you broke up with him, and your heart's still on the shelf  
It's been over two years for me, and I'm still not quite myself_

_You can't be with someone new and you can't go back to him  
You're beginning to realize that it's sink or swim_

_I see you around sometimes, and my heart just melts  
Looking like if you had your wish, you'd be somewhere else_

There is nothing left for me to live for in this world, this life—Smith took it all away in the space of a few hours during that horrible night, almost two weeks ago. I would have been in my eighth month or very close to it, she thought sadly, resting her hand over the place where her child had once grew inside her.

_And it just breaks my heart to see you here this way  
Someday I'll get the nerve to walk up to you and say_

_This is the last worthless evening that you'll have to spend  
Just give me a chance to show you how to love again_

_This is the last worthless evening that you'll have to spend_  
'_Cause I'll be there when your broken heart is on the mend_

But there were no movements from within in response to her touch now, nothing. Not even the once familiar feel of a strong kick from a foot, or a soft nudge from a hand or elbow. I am completely empty inside; barren of life, but my own body does not or will not acknowledge that awful fact. It was only a day or so after I had regained consciousness from the drug Smith gave me in the hospital that I felt my breasts begin to lactate, only you will never be here to drink the milk that I am producing for you. I never told Smith about that, but I guess it really doesn't matter now anyway.

_Every night it's the same old crowd, smoky rooms  
You catch a faint glimpse of love sometimes but it never blooms_

And I've been around this block a time or two  
And I've made some big mistakes, but girl, I promise you, I promise you

You are gone forever, my beautiful little Sarah, my daughter, and I can never get you back. You and Jones—who would have loved you as if you were his own-both of you left me. Left me here with no one but Smith. I am alone, bereft and deserted and there is no one for me to love or to love me in return, to hold me when I am afraid, even to comfort me when I weep.

_This is the last worthless evening that you'll have to spend  
Just give me a chance to show you how to love again_

This is the last worthless evening that you'll have to spend  
'_Cause it won't be long 'til your little heart is on the mend_

With shock, she heard her hotel room door open and then close. Smith had returned.

_Time, time, ticking, ticking, ticking away  
Time, time, ticking, ticking, ticking  
Time, time, ticking, ticking away  
Time, time, ticking, ticking, ticking _

She clutched the balcony railing in momentary apprehension, feeling the cool, comforting strength of steel beneath her fingers and felt the fear within her fade away. She had known ever since this morning what she had to do and now that the time had come, the courage to actually do it came easily and effortlessly. It is what Jones himself would want, she thought. He would rather have me die with my head held high and my back straight, than to grovel on the floor like a submissive pet that licks its master's hand for crumbs from his table—or, in my case, painkillers washed down with copious amounts of alcohol—using my addictions against me in order to get what he wants.

_People inside their houses, with the shades pulled down  
God knows we could use some romance in this sleepy, bedroom town_

_I know you're still afraid to rush into anything  
But there's only so many summers, babe, and just so many springs_

Bronwyn could hear his slow, steady step coming ever closer. When Smith opened her bedroom door, she heard him call her name. She looked over her shoulder and into his eyes. In her fragile state of mind, she thought she saw a fleeting glimpse of Jones-and how he used to look at her sometimes-reveal itself from behind Smith's eyes.

_This is the last worthless evening that you'll have to spend, babe,  
Just give me a chance, give me a chance, to show you love again_

She said her final farewell to Jones with a smile at Smith, his murderer, a smile he was completely unprepared for, judging by his reaction. But she had to admit that it was because of Smith and the consequences of his actions, that she even knew what it was to love someone. She smiled at the paradox, the contradiction of terms that made her grateful for his assault on her nearly eight months before. If he had never raped me, then I would not have become pregnant and it was _because_ I was pregnant that I met and fell in love with Jones.

She owed Smith a great debt and she knew she could never thank him enough. When he came out on the balcony, she looked into his face and knew immediately how she could repay him. When she sought his embrace and felt his arms go around her, she relaxed her mind and body and felt at peace. There was neither fear nor any of the other dark emotions she usually experienced while in his presence.

She asked Smith to kiss her and he obliged, gladly. She freely and willingly kissed the machine, the _thing_ that had simultaneously caused all of her unhappiness and heartbreak as well as all the love and joy, all the while strengthening her resolve and summoning her courage. When she ended the kiss, Bronwyn turned away and tightened her grip on the railing and she hurled herself up and over, falling through space, falling headfirst to the ground that was rushing to meet her and where she could already see Jones holding her child in his arms as they waited for her to join them. Bronwyn smiled when she heard the last strains of the poignant song drifting on the wind….

_This is the last worthless evening that you'll have to spend  
Cause it won't be long until your little heart is on the mend_

There was no more pain, no more loneliness or grief, only a feeling of being free from the nightmare she called Smith: she was finally going not only where she belonged and was beloved in turn, but where she had always been destined to be.

_This is the last worthless evening that you'll have to spend  
Give me a chance, darling, to show you how to love again._

_This is the last worthless evening that you'll have to spend_  
'_Cause it won't be long 'til your broken heart is on the mend._


	32. Epilogue

Epilogue

Summary: The ending to my story. Nope, no spoilers—just read it and tell me what you think!

Smith had purchased the food that Bronwyn had requested and drove quickly back to the hotel. He had been positive that Bronwyn had used her sudden desire for sweets as an excuse to get him to leave her alone that he expected to find her gone by the time he returned.

Getting off the elevator, he looked at the copies of himself who guarded the entrance of the suite that he and Bronwyn shared. They were there to keep Smith's enemies from the Mainframe _out_, but also to keep her _in_. True, she was a prisoner; but it was for her own good, really.

"Has she tried to leave?"

"No."

Smith was surprised and perplexed. He frowned, and realized that something was not right. He hurriedly opened the door and walked in.

The sitting room was as exactly he had left it, with nothing out of place. He glanced at the closed door to Bronwyn's bedroom and he could hear faint music coming from within. Opening the door, he immediately felt the cold breeze from the open sliding door at the end of the room caress his face.

"Bronwyn?" he called, "are you in here?"

He saw her standing on the balcony with her hands resting on the railing in front of her. When she heard his voice, she turned around and looked into his eyes. Suddenly, she smiled; a dazzling, wonderful smile that lit up her entire face making Smith catch his breath for a moment as he stared, transfixed, at her.

She has _never_ looked at me like that before. Ever. Something is definitely wrong with her, he thought, alarmed. Then he knew. That smile was not meant for me, it was meant for Jones. Perhaps some part of him still lives on in me and only she can see it, and that is what she is responding to now. Even though he is gone, she still loves him and will continue to do so. Once Jones entered her life, I never had a chance with her. She would never love me even if I was the last man on earth and her heart will always remain with him.

Even before I went to get her food for her, he thought, I could see how much she hated the very sight of me just by the expression on her face and especially in her eyes; those breathtaking not-quite green, but yet not-quite brown eyes of hers that have haunted me from the first moment I saw her.

"What are you doing standing out here, Bronwyn? Aren't you cold?" he asked softly, slowly coming to where she stood on the balcony and making no sudden movements that might scare or frighten her, as he did so. His eyes never left hers, as if looking into them could tell him what her intentions were.

"No, I'm not cold. Did you bring my cake?" Bronwyn asked calmly.

"Yes, I did." He turned his head and glanced at the bag he had held in his hand. He thought she was going to take the food from him, but she did not. Instead, she came and put her arms around him, burying her face in his shirt. Smith was completely taken aback by her sudden change of demeanor, and after doing a thorough examination of her Matrix data code, he was surprised to discover that she was completely sober; she did not have a trace of narcotics or alcohol of any kind in her system. But then again, how could she, he thought, I had them taken away from her.

He tossed the bag onto the bed and carefully returned her embrace and she still did not flinch at his touch or try to get away from him in any way.

"You feel cold, Bronwyn," he said, when he held her closer, and he could not help but notice that her nipples were hard against his shirt. Her body was trembling, but whether it was from the cold or inner turmoil, he would never know.

"I'm OK."

"Are you?" He tipped her head up so that he could look into her eyes to ascertain for himself if she was telling the truth. She met his gaze steadily and directly, but there was no emotion in her eyes. Nothing. She slid her hand from his chest to his neck and stroked his cheek. Smith placed a kiss into her palm and took her hand in his own. "What's troubling you, Bronwyn? Please tell me."

"Will you kiss me?" Bronwyn asked plaintively, her voice sad and mournful. She stood on her tiptoes and Smith lowered his head until her lips met his. She kissed him willingly for the first and only time; it came from her heart and he knew it. He did not know what premeditated this and he did not care. He would follow wherever she directed; she would have control, she would take the lead. He would not try to control the situation, nor would he force her to do anything she did not want to.

Smith was puzzled; this kiss was not in any way a sexual or romantic one, it was something else.

"Thank you," she breathed, pulling herself out from his embrace and backed away until she leaned against the balcony railing.

"All I did was get what you wanted."

She shook her head, smiling. "No, I mean thank you for everything you've done."

Smith could feel his spine prickle with a vague feeling of trepidation and dread. What _is_ she talking about, he wondered. However, before he could ponder that question further, she spoke again.

"I never thought I'd ever say this to you, but…I owe you so much for what you did all those months ago, when you raped me."

Smith was dumbfounded; and for the first and only time in his existence, he was at a total and utter loss for words. How could she be thanking me for _that_?

"Because of the consequences of your actions that night, you made me feel two things I probably would never have experienced if you hadn't."

"Like what?"

"Love, Smith, love. The love a mother feels for her child and the love a woman feels for a man—no, not for you," she said, seeing the sudden and hopeful look in his eyes, "but what Jones and I shared." She looked over her shoulder at the view from the balcony for a moment, and then turned her attention back to Smith. "But while you gave me the chance to feel love, you took it away when you killed both Sarah and Jones." Her voice trailed off, and Smith could see her eyes glisten with tears.

"I know I should hate you for what you've done to me, but I can't. I don't have the energy to either hate or love anymore. Goodbye, Smith," Bronwyn said, and her last spoken sentence to him was not full of anger or hate as he had expected, but very simply and very calmly stated. Sometimes the most complicated of emotions can be expressed in the simplest of terms and the fewest of words.

Horror-struck, Smith saw Bronwyn pull herself up and over the railing before he could stop her, and she began to fall to the ground, more than forty-five floors below. Without a second thought, he sprang over the railing, following her to the ground. This would not be the first time he had jumped out of a window or had fallen from such a great height, but he knew exactly how to position himself in midair so that he would land on his feet when he hit the ground. However, she did not have that capability and he knew that the only way she could survive unharmed and intact would be if he caught her before she landed.

Smith knew exactly what the fall would do to her body besides end her life—he had seen the remains of humans who had died such deaths before; he had been responsible for most of them. If she were extremely lucky, she would die immediately on impact, but if she was not, the torment and agony she would have to endure until death claimed her was not pleasant even for him to think about. Either way, Smith did not want to speculate on what she would look like once she did land.

If she was still alive when he got to her, he knew that he would dispatch and kill her with his own hands if he had to and he would do it as quickly and as painlessly as he could. I will _not_ let her suffer, for no matter what has happened between us in the past, at the very least she deserves that small consideration from me. The idea of killing her is horrible to even think about, but the possible necessity of it is something I have to consider.

He could see her small form just ahead of him and knew that despite his best efforts, skills and even his abilities as an agent, Bronwyn was going to hit the ground before he could reach her. Desperately thinking he could overcome the odds and still catch her at the last minute, he reached out and tried to seize her foot that seemed so close to his outstretched hand, but he only grasped empty air. She had had a head start on him by only a few moments and he realized that he would never catch her in time.

They were not far from the ground now, and Smith knew that she had, at last, succeeded in leaving him and this time it would be forever. He heard her body hit the concrete of the sidewalk with a sickening thud: her body bounced once, and she remained completely still, unmoving. At the last possible moment, he turned in midair so that he landed on his feet beside her.

There was no need to check for life signs for he knew simply by looking at her that she was already dead. Nevertheless, he knelt by her broken and crushed body and gazed into the ruin of her face for what seemed an eternity before he gently brushed a tendril of her hair off her face so he could look into her still-open eyes one last time. There was a half-smile on her lips and it must have a trick of the overhead street light that gave her a twinkle in her lifeless eyes.

He winced at the sound of Bronwyn's shattered bones that ground against each other as he cradled her in his arms in a futile attempt to keep the chill the emanated from the ground from draining away what little warmth still remained in her flesh. The deep crimson of her blood had stained the white purity of his shirt, but he neither knew nor cared. He was stripped of all emotion, all feeling inside, and nothing from the world around him mattered anymore.

"Bronwyn, why did you do this? Why couldn't you just give me a chance?" he murmured softly, his lips against her hair, but Smith never knew he had spoken aloud.

The Machines could never use her now for their terrible purpose and while he would mourn the loss of both Bronwyn and their child, he begrudged her choice to take her own life, but he understood her motives. Now that he had lost her, he knew exactly what she had gone through when he took Jones away from her.

As for the death of their child, while he would never fully understand what a mother had to suffer when the baby she had carried was lost, he knew only too well what agony the bereaved father of the dead child must endure. He had to acknowledge, however, that at least she was safe from any harm and her body could not be violated. She would never feel pain or sorrow ever again and he hoped that wherever her soul was now, she was finally happy and at peace.

The two things that had so recently made his existence worthwhile—Bronwyn and his child—were gone forever. Time had no meaning for him now and he was not aware of anything around him: the thunder rumbling in the distance or the lightning that split the sky until the heavy showers of the first rainfall of spring soaked through his clothes to his skin and the cold pavement he was still sitting on permeated his consciousness at last.

He looked up into the sky and let the wetness fall onto his face as he watched lightning flicker and flash across the night sky. I suppose it is only fitting that it is raining now that she is gone from this world, he thought. It seems all the gods and goddesses of Ancient Egypt are weeping, for the torrent that poured from the sky showed no sign of stopping.

I will take and destroy the Matrix for their sakes, the two that were taken from me. First, I will assimilate every human and every program in the world, for it will be only then that I can spread to the Machine City and destroy it for everything it has done to me.

But my first order of business will be to go back to San Francisco and learn where Mr. Anderson and his fellow members of the Resistance meet. I _must_ destroy him. Zion must lose their savior and fall, yet again, to the power and might of the Machines.

I will duplicate myself _ad infinitum_ in the Matrix for there is no way that he can defeat me if I battle him with overwhelming numbers of clones at my side. If I should fail in my goal, then I will have to take over the form of one of the rebels so that I may enter Zion and get close enough to Mr. Anderson and kill him any way I can.

On the last day of the existence of the Matrix, I will make it rain until I and my clones reduce it to nothing but rubble—two worlds for two lives. It is a fair and fitting exchange, Smith thought and turned his gaze back to Bronwyn's face.

THE END.

A/N: Actually, it's not really the end; in my next story, I will go into how Smith was able to find the captain's meeting place at the beginning of "Reloaded." To the best of my knowledge, there hasn't been a story that fully explains how he found it, so I think I will take a stab at it and see what I can make of it.


End file.
